THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


My  Life  in  Prison 


My  Life 
in  Prison 

DONALD  LOWRIE 


New  York  &  London 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1912 


Copyright  1912   by 
Mitchell   Kennerley 


College 
Library 

HV 


MY  LIFE  IN  PRISON 


CHAPTER  I 

I  was  broke.    I  had  not  eaten  for  three  days. 

I  had  walked  the  streets  for  three  nights.  Every  fibre 
of  my  being,  every  precept  of  my  home  training  pro- 
tested against  and  would  not  permit  my  begging. 

I  saw  persons  all  about  me  spending  money  for  trifles, 
or  luxuries.  I  envied  the  ragged  street  urchin  as  he 
took  a  nickel  in  exchange  for  a  newspaper  and  ran  ex- 
pectantly to  the  next  pedestrian.  But  I  was  broke  and 
utterly  miserable. 

Have  you  ever  been  broke? 

Have  you  ever  been  hungry  and  miserable,  not  knowing 
when  or  where  you  were  going  to  get  your  next  meal,  nor 
where  you  were  going  to  spend  your  next  night? 

Have  you  ever  tramped  holes  in  your  shoes  in  a  tire- 
some, discouraging  effort  to  get  work,  meeting  rebuff 
and  insults  in  return  for  your  earnestness  and  sincerity, 
and  encountering  an  utter  lack  of  an  understanding  of 
your  crying  necessity  in  those  with  whom  you  have  pleaded 
for  a  chance? 

1157452 


8  My  Life  in  Prison 

Have  you  ever  felt  as  though  the  world  itself  were 
against  you  and  that  a  mistake  had  been  made  by  Nature 
in  inflicting  you  with  life  ? 

If  you  have  not  felt  each  and  all  of  these  things  it  will, 
perhaps,  be  futile  for  you  to  read  what  they  brought  to 
one  who  has  felt  them,  and  it  will  be  difficult  for  you  to 
tolerate  any  thought  of  extenuation  for  what  happened. 

Thousands  of  persons  have  felt  these  thoughts,  have 
suffered  these  experiences,  but  very  few  have  done  what 
I  did;  at  all  events,  very  few  have  done  what  I  did  and 
then  told  about  it,  as  I  am  going  to  tell. 

Few  crimes  are  committed  from  choice. 

The  number  of  professional  criminals  is  small,  amaz- 
ingly small,  in  comparison  with  the  number  who  are  crim- 
inals of  circumstance.  But  society  makes  no  distinction; 
the  man  who  steals  because  he  is  hungry,  and  too  proud 
or  squeamish  to  beg,  is  classed  with  the  thug  who  waylays 
you  at  night  and  takes  your  money  by  persuasion  of  an 
ugly  .44-caliber  "smoke-wagon"  held  within  an  inch  of 
your  brain,  and  with  money  jingling  in  his  own  pocket  at 
the  moment. 

The  first  is  an  unfortunate  human  being  driven  to  com- 
mit an  act  which  he  abhors ;  the  second  a  dangerous  men- 
ace to  humankind  and  organized  society. 

I  belonged  to  the  unprofessional  class.  And  despite  a 
long  term  in  prison,  I  am  not  yet  a  criminal. 

Every  atom  of  my  body,  each  vibration  of  my  mind, 
revolts  at  the  thought  of  crime.  Yet  I  committed  bur- 
glary; also  I  have  a  big,  warm  tolerance  for  other  men 
who  have  committed  burglary,  or  other  crimes,  no  mat- 
ter who  they  may  be.  Do  not  mistake  me — I  am  not 
seeking  to  apotheosize  the  offender  against  the  law;  far 
from  it.  But  I  know  that  all  men  are  human — even  the 
men  in  convict  stripes  and  shaven  heads. 

Why  shouldn't  I  know?    Haven't  I  been  one  of  them? 


Donald  Lowrie  8 

Didn't  I  violate  the  sacredness  of  a  home  in  the  dead  of 
night,  and  didn't  I  spend  long  years  in  the  penitentiary? 

Who  knows  if  I  don't? 

As  I  look  back  I  wonder  what  has  been  accomplished  by 
my  imprisonment. 

Perhaps  before  this  series  of  sketches  is  done  some  of 
you  may  discover  what  has  been  accomplished  in  my  in- 
dividual case.  But  what  is  being  accomplished  in  the 
thousands  of  other  and  more  unconscionable  cases? 

Perhaps  you  do  not  care ;  possibly  you  may  feel  that  it 
is  none  of  your  concern ;  that  you  pay  taxes  for  protec- 
tion, and  that  you  cannot  be  held  accountable  for  the 
shortcomings  of  others  or  for  the  inhuman  and  illogical 
system  that  enhances  the  certainty  of  still  greater  vio- 
lation of  man-made  laws. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  you  are  still  responsible;  and  you 
are  not  protected. 

I  was  broke  and  utterly  miserable.  True,  there  were 
thousands  of  others  just  as  miserable — I  realized  that 
— but  I  was  myself,  I  was  no  one  else  save  myself,  and  I 
had  a  nickel  with  a  hole  in  it  in  my  pocket. 

Never  mutilate  a  coin  of  the  realm.  It  may  fall  into 
the  hands  of  a  starving  man  or  woman  and  prove  the 
last  argument  in  favor  of  crime — or  suicide. 

It  was  nearing  midnight  and  the  possibility  of  escap- 
ing another  night  in  the  streets  growing  slimmer  with  each 
passing  moment.  Somehow  I  felt  that  something  must 
occur  to  relieve  my  crying  necessity. 

Subconsciously  I  had  buoyed  myself  over  three  bread- 
less  days  and  sleepless  nights  with  the  unframed  thought 
that  something  must  turn  up. 

Put  yourself  in  my  place.    What  would  you  have  done? 

Suddenly,  almost  with  the  effect  of  an  unexpected  phy- 
sical blow,  it  came  upon  me  that  hope  was  a  chimera,  that 
I  must  do  something  for  myself. 


4  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  had  made  every  reasonable  effort  consistent  with  my 
individual  temperament  and  physical  capability  to  get  em- 
ployment. 

I  had  passed  display  stands  where  a  careless  dropping 
of  the  hand  might  have  yielded  an  apple  or  a  raw  potato. 
But  now  the  time  had  arrived  for  action. 

What  should  it  be? 

Suicide  instantly  presented  its  hideous  features — a  vivid 
picture  of  the  dock  and  the  muddy  green  waters  closing 
over  a  drawn  human  face  arose  before  me. 

I  was  not  shocked,  not  even  surprised;  merely  awed. 
It  seemed  a  natural  solution.  Yes,  that  was  it — suicide. 

A  dead  man's  stomach  was  insensate — its  clamorings 
were  done — it  was  filled  to  repletion  forever  and  forever. 

Unconsciously  my  footsteps  quickened,  for  such  is  the 
effect  of  decision  of  the  mind  on  the  body,  and  I  turned 
toward  the  bay. 

As  I  did  so  my  fingers  closed  over  the  damaged  nickel 
in  my  pocket,  and  a  new  thought  occurred  to  me.  The 
hole  in  the  coin  suggested  crime;  why  I  do  not  know. 

I  stopped  and  reflected.  Yes,  I  would  leave  it  to  the 
nickel — the  bogus  nickel.  Why  not?  It  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death — essentially  a  gamble. 

I  would  take  the  nickel  from  my  pocket.  If  my  eyes 
encountered  "heads"  I  would  commit  crime;  if  "tails** 
appeared  I  would  hurry  to  the  jumping-off  place. 

I  drew  the  coin  from  my  pocket  and  looked  at  it  uncon- 
cernedly, impersonally. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see.  Holding  it  firmly  so  that  the 
test  might  be  fair,  I  walked  rapidly  to  the  corner  and 
under  a  gas  lamp. 

The  head  of  Liberty  stared  me  in  the  face.    I  flung  the 
coin  into  the  gutter  and  buttoned  up  my  coat. 
I  had  suddenly  become  a  criminal. 
Why  I  should  have  decided  that  burglary  was  the  only 


Donald  Lowrie  5 

crime  open  to  fulfil  my  needs  it  is  hard  to  say.  Looking 
back  over  the  desert  of  years  I  seem  to  recall  that  I  was 
actuated  by  a  recollection  of  something  that  had  occurred 
during  my  boybood.  Inadvertently  we  had  left  the  back 
door  open  one  night  and  a  nocturnal  prowler  had  taken 
advantage  of  it.  That  childhood  incident  came  back  to 
me,  and  the  fact  that  I  decided  to  emulate  the  unknown 
gentleman  who  had  appropriated  my  father's  watch  tends 
to  strengthen  the  claim  that  man  is  a  simon-pure  imita- 
tive animal. 

Two  hours  after  I  had  arrived  at  my  decision  I  found 
myself  skulking  along  the  quiet,  tree-fringed  streets  of  the 
residential  section.  A  sense  of  guilt  permeated  me.  I  felt 
that  I  had  already  taken  an  irretrievable  step,  a  step  from 
impecunious  respectability  to  impecunious  dishonor. 

I  had  no  desire  to  abandon  my  intention,  and  yet  it 
occurred  to  me  that  it  would,  after  all,  be  more  honorable 
to  beg  than  to  steal.  But  humiliation  before  my  own  self 
seemed  far  more  preferable  and  endurable  than  humilia- 
tion before  others,  for,  of  course,  I  did  not  expect  to 
be  caught. 

As  for  the  penalty,  that  never  occurred  to  me  at  all. 
It  would  not  have  made  any  difference  if  it  had. 

I  walked  several  blocks  farther,  turning  each  corner 
that  opened  into  the  obscure  and  remote  reaches  of  the 
neighborhood,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  mustered 
sufficient  courage  to  turn  and  cross  a  lawn.  When  I 
finally  did  it  was  with  startling  suddenness,  as  though 
at  the  direction  of  some  external  agency,  and  this  feel- 
ing was  emphasized  a  moment  later  when  I  found  myself 
standing  before  a  partly  raised  window,  concealed  from 
the  street  by  a  friendly  rose  Jmsh.  It  seemed  as  though 
I  had  come  directly  from  my  starting  point  to  this  win- 
dow. 

After  a  brief  wait  to  satisfy  myself  that  I  had  not  been 


6  My  Life  in  Prison 

observed  entering  the  grounds,  I  proceeded  to  raise  the 
sash.  Very  slowly  and  noiselessly  I  pushed  the  sash  up- 
ward until  there  was  sufficient  room  to  permit  the  pas- 
sage of  my  body.  My  mind  was  already  inside,  counting 
returns.  I  stood  still  a  moment,  listening  acutely.  No 
sound  broke  the  sombre  stillness.  The  great  world  was 
so  quiet  that  I  imagined  I  could  hear  the  circulation  of 
my  own  blood.  A  moment  later  I  was  inside  the  house. 

A  street  lamp  some  distance  away  sent  a  dim  light 
through  the  front  windows,  and  I  saw  that  I  was  in  a 
parlor.  The  piano  looked  inviting — that  was  strange, 
wasn't  it?  But  instead  of  yielding  to  its  lure  I  sat  down 
and  rested.  I  was  quite  cool. 

All  the  burglar  stories  I  had  ever  read  had  distinctly 
stated  that  the  burglar  removed  his  shoes  and  examined 
his  "trusty"  revolver  before  proceeding  into  the  more  men- 
acing regions  of  the  domicile  which  he  entered.  But  I  was 
without  a  revolver,  and  the  squeak  had  long  since  been 
ground  out  of  my  shoes.  As  for  a  dark-lantern  and 
"jimmy,"  I  had  never  seen  either  accoutrement  of  my  pro- 
fession and  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do  with  either 
had  they  been  at  hand. 

While  sitting  in  the  parlor  I  saw  the  form  of  a  man  flit 
past  the  house.     Instinctively  I  knew  he  was  the  night 
watchman  for  that  district,  and  hugged  myself  that  I  had 
arrived  just  when  I  did.    I  was  also  surprised  to  find  my- 
self so  much  at  ease.    I  had  been  more  upset  and  fearful 
while  on  the  street  than  I  was  now.     Surely  I  would  not 
j  find  it  terrifying  to  enter  other  rooms  and  seek  the  money 
|  and  valuables  that  I  knew  awaited  me.     Again,  my  mind 
i  preceded  my  body.    I  arose  and  followed  it. 

Turning  into  the  hall,  I  had  an  awful  moment — a  mo- 
ment that  still  gives  me  the  creeps.  As  I  stepped  forward 
I  became  conscious  of  another  man  moving  close  beside 
me.  My  blood  seemed  to  solidify !  For  an  instant  I  went 


Donald  Lowrie  7 

senseless  with  horror,  but  the  reaction  was  prompt  and 
I  sprang  back  with  a  smothered  cry. 

The  man  sprang  back  with  me  and  disappeared.  I 
stood  there  trembling,  but  could  hear  no  sound. 

I  must  get  to  the  window,  and  quickly.  As  I  moved 
I  noticed  a  glare  on  my  right.  The  next  instant  I  realized 
what  had  occurred.  I  had  been  dodging  my  own  reflec- 
tion in  the  hall  mirror. 

After  the  first  revulsion  of  feeling  had  passed  I  was 
thankful  that  I  had  not  a  "gun"  on  my  person,  for  I  had 
felt  one  awful  moment ;  the  thought  of  self-protection  had 
been  strong  upon  me.  Had  I  been  a  professional  crook  I 
would  certainly  have  shattered  a  useful  and  inoffensive 
mirror  during  that  moment. 

It  required  several  minutes  for  me  to  regain  my  self- 
possession,  and  then  I  ascended  the  stairs,  instinctively 
keeping  close  to  the  wall  in  order  to  circumvent  the  creak- 
ings  that  had  heralded  my  use  of  the  first  three  steps. 

I  wondered  if  I  had  ever  done  this  same  thing  before — 
it  seemed  so  strange  that  I  should  know  just  what  to  do. 

On  the  upper  floor  I  paused  at  an  open  door.  The 
slow,  regular  breathing  of  a  sleeper  came  from  within  the 
room.  I  stepped  across  the  threshold  and  stopped. 

It  was  pitch  dark.  I  listened  tensely.  Presently  I  lo- 
cated an  objective  point — the  soft,  yet  jubilant,  ticking 
of  a  watch — a  little  machine  at  work  while  mankind  slept. 

I  compared  myself  with  the  watch.  Was  I  not  work- 
ing also,  or  was  I?  Was  I  not  facing  a  possible  ignom- 
inious and  sudden  separation  from  life?  Was  I  not — in 
a  certain  sense- — earning  whatever  I  might  get — even  a 
"package"  from  his  Honor?  Yes,  indeed.  Already,  I 
considered  the  watch  as  my  own  property — also  as  my 
friend. 

Three  cautious  steps,  a  moment's  fumbling  at  a  clothes* 
raclc  and  the  watch  was  in  my  hands;  not  only  the 


8  My  Life  in  Prison 

watch,  but  also  a  man's  purse  that  was  gloriously  heavy. 

Bending,  I  laid  the  rifled  garments  on  the  floor  and 
slowly  backed  from  the  room. 

Going  downstairs  I  heard  the  parlor  clock  strike  four 
and  a  milk  wagon  rattling  faintly  on  the  next  street. 

At  midnight  I  had  been  an  honest  man.  Now  I  was 
an  outlaw,  a  burglar.  Still,  no  one  save  myself  knew  it, 
and  no  one  ever  should  know  it.  I  felt  justified  in  hav- 
ing done  what  I  had. 

On  the  lawn  outside,  in  the  shadow  of  a  rustling  palm, 
I  paused  to  empty  the  purse  and  count  the  money.  There 
were  three  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  and  some  silver.  Ex- 
ultingly  I  slipped  them  into  my  pocket.  The  purse  I  flung 
into  space. 

A  few  steps  took  me  to  the  street,  and  I  walked  rapidly 
away,  head  erect  and  full  of  vigor. 

I  had  re-established  my  right  to  live. 

While  eating  breakfast  downtown  an  hour  later — my 
first  meal ;  in  fact,  the  first  food  that  had  passed  my  lips 
in  eighty-four  hours — I  reflected  on  what  I  had  done. 
Somehow  I  felt  that  there  should  be  a  reaction,  that  I 
ought  to  be  horrified  at  the  thought  that  I  had  committed 
a  crime;  but  the  food  tasted  natural  and  I  was  happy, 
actually  and  unqualifiedly  happy.  I  felt  absolutely  no 
qualms  of  conscience. 

After  all,  a  criminal,  so-called,  is  not  such  a  desperate, 
dangerous,  despicable  creature.  The  patrons  in  the  res- 
taurant did  not  regard  me  any  differently  because  I  had 
committed  a  burglary  an  hour  before.  Why?  Because 
they  did  not  know. 

I  wonder  how  many  persons  there  are  walking  the 
streets,  riding  in  the  cars,  sitting  next  to  you  at  the  thea- 
tre, who  are  undiscovered,  undetected,  uncaught  crim- 
inals? 

Have  you  ever  violated  the  law  yourself?     Have  you 


Donald  Lowrie  9 

ever  passed  a  counterfeit  coin  that  has  been  palmed  off 
on  you?  That  is  a  felony,  you  know,  punishable  by  im- 
prisonment in  the  penitentiary. 

True,  it  doesn't  stack  up  with  burglary,  or  robbery,  or 
forgery,  or  passing  a  fictitious  check.  But  it  is  none  the 
less  a  crime. 

My  meal  finished,  I  bought  a  twenty-five-cent  cigar  and 
strolled  down  the  street;  nor  did  I  forget  to  tip  the 
waiter.  Though  I  had  been  dead  tired  and  weak  for  want 
of  sleep  at  midnight,  I  now  felt  wide  awake  and  alert,  I 
seemed  to  be  intoxicated  with  the  success  of  my  temer- 
ity, drunk  with  the  knowledge  that  I  possessed  nerve  and 
initiative,  proud  that  I  had  solved  the  riddle  of  my  pre- 
dicament and  come  out  the  winner.  My  fingers  toyed 
with  the  watch  in  my  pocket  and  I  turned  into  a  side 
street  to  look  the  timepiece  over.  It  proved  to  be  an 
eighteen-karat,  full-jewelled  Swiss. 

"Worth  not  less  than  a  hundred,"  I  thought,  "and  a 
dangerous  article  for  me  to  keep.  I  must  pawn  it." 

The  thought  was  no  sooner  conceived  than  I  decided 
to  act  on  it.  Surreptitiously  I  fastened  the  watch-guard 
to  my  vest  and  looked  for  the  familiar  three  balls. 

Five  minutes  later  four  $20  gold  pieces  were  grudgingly 
shoved  toward  me  by  the  cadaverous  individual  behind 
the  pawnshop  counter,  and  I  signed  my  name.  He  had 
looked  at  me  very  searchingly  during  the  transaction — 
so  searchingly  that  I  felt  uncomfortable  and  apprehen- 
sive. But  when  I  reflected  that  the  theft  was  only  a  few 
hours  old  and  that  he  could  by  no  possibility  have  an 
inkling  of  my  guilt,  I  became  reassured  and  said  something 
about  "cutting  the  poker  game  for  a  time." 

"There  ain't  much  doubt  of  that,"  he  answered  sig- 
nificantly. I  did  not  detect  the  menacing  sarcasm  of  the 
remark  at  the  moment,  but  now — ten  years  later — it  ran- 
kles. 


10  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  remember  groping  my  way  from  the  place,  and  on 
reaching  the  street  tried  to  hasten  my  steps — but  the  need 
of  sleep  had  come  over  me  with  brutal  suddenness.  My, 
feet  seemed  laden  with  lead. 

Glancing  at  the  signs  about  me,  I  discovered  a  rooming 
house  and  turned  to  enter.  As  I  did  so  I  felt  a  strong  im- 
pulse to  run.  The  next  instant  a  hand  was  fumbling  at 
my  coat  cuffs,  and  before  I  realized  what  had  happened  a 
pair  of  nippers  closed  around  my  right  wrist. 

It  is  always  the  right  wrist  that  feels  the  nippers.  Still, 
policemen  have  been  shot  by  left-handed  men.  A  voice  full 
of  exultation  was  at  my  ear. 

"I  guess  the  chief  wants  to  see  you,"  it  said. 

Turning  faintly,  I  encountered  the  gray  eyes  of  a  thick- 
set, florid-faced  man,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

Impulsively  I  drew  back. 

"Come  along,  kid ;  no  fuss !"  he  admonished. 

I  wonder  if  3'ou  can  appreciate  the  awful  revulsion  of 
feeling  that  smothered  me.  A  moment  before  I  had  been 
a  free  being;  now  I  was  an  apprehended  criminal.  I  of- 
fered no  resistance,  but  turned  and  accompanied  my  cap- 
tor without  a  word.  No  one  but  he  and  I  knew  of  the 
arrest  then. 

At  headquarters  I  was  led  into  the  presence  of  the  Chief. 

"A  live  one,"  commented  the  man  who  had  arrested  me, 
removing  the  nippers  and  starting  to  go  through  my 
pockets. 

I  had  not  yet  spoken  a  word.  I  was  fighting  with'  my- 
self, trying  to  determine  what  course  I  should  adopt. 

Should  I  refuse  to  talk  and  let  the  police  officers  find 
out  what  they  could — what  they  were  paid  for  doing — or 
should  I  tell  the  truth  and  sue  for  mercy? 

I  decided  to  hold  my  own  counsel. 

''What's  y'r  name?"  inquire?!  the  Chief. 

"I  wonder,"  I  instantly  replied. 


Donald  Lowrie  11 

Imagine  my  surprise  when  he  dipped  the  pen  into  the 
inkwell  and  drew  the  blotter  toward  him. 

"What's  y'r  first  name?"  he  inquired.  "What's  the  T 
stand  for?" 

"I  wonder,"  I  reiterated  doggedly. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  snarled.  "We've  got  y'r  right. 
You're  a  dead  one.  The  name  don't  cut  much  ice.  You 
can  do  time  under  that  name  as  well  as  under  any  other." 
And  he  wrote  "I  Wonder"  on  the  record. 

When  he  asked  other  questions  I  refused  to  answer.  I 
was  threatened  with  dire  consequences  if  I  did  not  "come 
through,"  but  did  not  yield.  I  didn't  care.  I  was  tired 
and  sick.  At  last,  realizing  the  futility  of  trying  to  force 
me  to  speak,  he  desisted,  and  I  was  led  away. 

"You'll  talk  before  we  get  through  with  you,"  com- 
mented my  custodian,  as  he  pushed  me  into  a  bare  cell 
in  the  basement  and  slammed  the  barred  door.  "You'll 
talk,  and  be  damned  glad  of  the  chance." 


The  contrast  between  being  a  free  creature  walking  the 
streets  and  a  captured  criminal  locked  in  a  cold  six  by 
four  stone  cell,  away  from  the  sun  and  air,  was  awful. 
I  felt  as  though  the  sides,  as  well  as  the  bottom,  had 
dropped  out  of  the  universe.  I  sank  upon  the  board  slat 
constituting  the  bed  and  dropped  my  head  into  my  hands. 
At  last  I  realized  the  enormity  of  my  act.  But,  no,  it 
was  not  the  enormity  of  the  act  so  much  as  the  enormity 
of  the  consequences. 

There  is  a  glaring  distinction. 

I  tried  to  delude  myself  that  I  had  nothing  to  fear,  that 
there  was  no  evidence  against  me.  I  had  been  arrested 
simply  because  of  my  seedy  appearance ;  perhaps  because 
I  looked  guilty  of  having  done  something  wrong. 

But  why  should  the  plain  clothesman  have  deemed  it 
necessary  to  use  the  nippers?  Why  should  such  an  air 
of  confidence  have  pervaded  the  attitude  of  the  Chief? 
And  why  had  the  pawnbroker  looked  at  me  so  curiously? 

Suddenly  I  recalled  that  there  had  been  some  one  stand- 
ing beside  me  while  I  had  been  in  the  pawnshop ;  also  that 
the  pawn  ticket  which  had  been  taken  from  my  pocket 
had  been  labelled  as  evidence.  There  was  no  use  in  dodging 
the  fact  that  I  was  up  against  it.  Even  though  the 
burglary  had  not  been  reported,  it  would  be — and  the 
fact  that  the  watch  had  been  practically  found  in  my  pos- 
session a  few  hours  after  the  crime  was  insurmountable. 


Donald  Lowrie  13 

That  day  seemed  unending.  No  one  came  near  me; 
no  one  spoke  to  me.  I  could  hear  the  rumble  of  street 
cars  overhead  and  far  away,  and  wondered  how  far  I 
was  under  the  teeming  city.  Also,  occasionally,  I  heard 
the  clanging  of  a  cell  door  in  the  distance. 

As  evening  approached  the  monotony  was  broken  by 
the  maudlin  mumblings  of  a  drunken  man  whom  they 
placed  in  a  cell  opposite  mine. 

I  tried  to  scrape  an  acquaintance  with  him,  but  he 
clung  to  the  bars  and  eyed  me  suspiciously. 

"Offisher,"  he  shouted,  "he's  trying  to  (hie)  pick  my 
pockets." 

The  remark  filled  me  with  loathing.  Somehow  that 
stupefied  brain  had  recognized  me  as  a  criminal — it  must 
already  show  in  my  face  and  bearing. 

I  slunk  back  into  the  cell  and  sat  down.  I  was  thirsty, 
but  could  find  no  water.  I  also  wanted  to  smoke.  AB 
for  food  and  sleep,  I  had  forgotten  them. 

At  last  they  came  after  me. 

It  felt  good  to  get  out  of  the  cell,  even  if  it  were  only 
for  a  grilling. 

I  was  led  into  a  brilliantly  lighted  room.  Several  per- 
sons were  present.  My  eyes  rested  upon  the  cadaverous 
features  of  the  pawnbroker's  clerk  and  remained  there. 

"Is  this  the  man?"  asked  the  officer  at  the  table,  nod- 
ding toward  me. 

"Yes,  that's  him.  He  pawned  that  watch  this  morn- 
ing." 

I  followed  the  sweep  of  the  witness's  hand  and  saw  the 
watch  lying  on  the  table.  It  did  not  look  so  friendly  now, 
and  I  wished  I  had  never  heard  or  seen  it.  The  officer 
turned  to  two  persons  who  were  seated  at  the  end  of  the 
table — an  elderly  gentleman  and  a  young  lady. 

"This  is  the  man  who  burglarized  your  house  last 
night,"  he  announced.  "Have  you  ever  seen  him  before  ?" 


14  My  Life  in  Prison 

The  young  lady's  eyes  embarrassed  me  and  I  hung  mjj 
head. 

"No,"  they  replied,  in  unison. 

"Look  closely,"  he  continued.  "This  is  important." 

"Stand  with  your  face  to  the  light,"  he  added,  gruffly, 
glaring  at  me. 

I  did  as  he  commanded. 

The  witnesses  shook  their  heads. 

"No,  I  have  never  seen  him  before,"  declared  the  old 
gentleman. 

"And  you,  miss?"  asked  the  policeman,  expectantly. 

"No,  I  don't  know  him,"  she  replied. 

"Very  well;  thank  you,"  said  the  inquisitor;  "that's 
all." 

They  arose  and  departed  with  apparent  relief. 

Until  midnight  I  was  quizzed  and  threatened,  pushed 
and  jostled,  subjected  to  everything  save  actual  physical 
violence,  but  refused  to  talk.  The  more  insistent  and 
threatening  they  became  the  more  stubborn  I  got.  Noth- 
ing would  ever  make  me  speak  unless  I  wanted  to  speak. 

Back  in  the  bare,  cold  cell,  I  threw  myself  on  the  board 
and  slept.  When  I  awoke  it  was  daylight — crepuscular 
daylight  down  there  in  that  sepulchral  place — and  I  saw 
a  tin  of  water  and  a  chunk  of  bread  on  the  stone  door- 
step outside. 

I  arose  and  drank  the  beverage  greedily  and  then  felt 
a  desire  to  wash.  My  face  and  hands  were  clammy  and 
sticky. 

I  could  find  no  sign  of  water.  With  a  portion  of  the 
hot  beverage  I  wet  the  handkerchief  which  they  had  re- 
turned to  me  when  I  was  searched,  and  managed  to  wash 
my  face  and  hands. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  became  conscious  of  thf 
fact  that  I  had  ceased  to  be  human. 

True,  I  had  committed  a  crime,  but  had  I  done  anything 


Donald  Lowrie  15 

warranting  society  to  inflict  me  with  the  horror  that  I 
saw  crawling  on  my  sleeve?  It  was  different  from  any 
insect  I  had  ever  seen.  My  blood  seemed  to  change  into 
a  slimy  snake  that  didn't  have  room  to  crawl  through 
my  heart.  Like  a  burning  iron  it  came  into  my  brain  that 
I  was — lousy.  My  character  had  been  besmirched  by  an 
act  of  my  own.  My  body  was  to  be  defiled  also.  That 
was  a  part  of  the  consequences. 

My  soul  went  sick,  for  even  a  burglar  has  a  soul.  We 
all  have  souls.  And,  in  essence,  we  are  all  alike.  There  is 
no  difference  save  in  manifestation.  A  mangy  rat  nib- 
bling at  the  chunk  of  bread  on  the  door-stone  scarcely; 
interested  me.  Rats  are  infinitely  preferable  to  lice. 

After  three  days  of  stubborn  silence  on  my  part  the 
detectives  gave  me  up,  though  not  without  a  promise  of 
"getting  even."  I  have  often  wondered  why  they  did 
not  man-handle  me,  for  I  have  since  learned  that  is  the 
common  process  with  the  suspect  who  refuses  to  talk. 
I  can  only  account  for  their  restraint  on  the  ground  that 
they  intuitively  realized  that  brute  force  would  only  have 
served  to  seal  my  lips — that  in  locking  up  my  body  they 
had  also  locked  the  doors  of  my  mind. 

On  the  fourth  morning — unwashed  and  unkempt — I 
was  hustled  upstairs  to  the  Police  Court.  I  had  not 
had  my  clothes  off  since  my  arrest,  and  I  felt  like  an 
animated  week-old  cadaver. 

I  paid  little  attention  to  the  proceedings.  It  matters 
not  much  what  was  said  and  done,  for  I  already  saw  the 
future.  I  knew  I  was  going  to  spend  long  years  in  prison. 

Against  the  advice  of  counsel,  I  pleaded  not  guilty  and 
stood  trial  before  the  Superior  Court.  Before  the  trial 
was  half  over,  however,  I  regretted  my  decision  and  would 
have  withdrawn  my  plea  had  it  not  been  for  my  inherent 
defiance — and  the  lice. 


16  My  Life  in  Prison 

^  I  would  maintain  an  attitude  of  indifference  and  uncon- 
cern to  the  very  end. 

At  last  the  jury  was  instructed,  principally  about  "rea- 
sonable doubts."  They  filed  from  the  room  with  bored 
expressions  predominating.  In  five  minutes  they  re- 
turned. 

"Guilty  of  burglary  of  the  first  degree,"  read  the  clerk, 
after  taking  the  written  verdict  from  the  hands  of  the 
foreman. 

I  felt  a  hundred  pairs  of  eyes  focussed  on  my  face,  but 
sat  unmoved.  No  one  should  know  how  I  felt.  My  law- 
yers spoke  a  few  apologetic  words  to  the  judge  and  sat 
down. 

"Sentence  10  a.m.  Saturday,"  announced  the  judge. 

Back  in  my  cell  at  the  jail  I  paced  the  floor  in  my  stock- 
ing feet  and  smoked  innumerable  cigarettes.  What  would 
the  sentence  be? 

According  to  the  peroration  of  the  District  Attorney, 
I  was  the  greatest  scoundrel  unhung — a  vicious  wolf  mas- 
querading in  sheep's  clothing.  Every  burglary  that  had 
occurred  during  the  past  six  months  was  inferentially  laid 
at  my  door.  If  this  address  had  impressed  the  judge  as 
it  seemed  to  have  impressed  the  jury  I  could  hope  for 
nothing  less  than  the  maximum  penalty — 15  years. 

Yes,  that  was  it — 15  years — 180  months — 780  weeks — 
5,475  days. 

I  had  entered  a  private  dwelling  in  the  dead  of  night, 
"armed  to  the  teeth  and  ready  to  commit  murder,"  accord- 
ing to  the  People's  representative.  The  fact  that  no  bur- 
glar's tools  had  been  found  in  my  possession,  nor  a  re- 
volver on  my  person,  and  that  I  had,  unprofessionally, 
taken  only  a  small  portion  of  the  valuables  contained  with- 
in the  home  I  had  desecrated,  had  been  overlooked  en- 
tirely. Even  my  own  attorney  had  failed  to  make  capital 
of  these  facts. 


Donald  Lowrie  17 

During  the  intervening  days  between  my  conviction  and 
sentence  my  thoughts  were  wholly  occupied  with  what  I 
would  get.  The  preceding  Saturday  a  professional  "pete" 
man  had  slipped  into  court,  "taken  a  plea"  and  returned 
exultingly  to  the  jail  with  a  six-year  "jolt."  He  had 
been  caught  in  the  act  of  blowing  a  safe  at  midnight  and 
was  already  a  "three-time  loser."  But  he  knew  "Gold  Coin 
Mike,"  the  boss  of  the  ward  where  his  mother  washed 
clothes  for  a  living.  That  made  a  big  difference. 

Saturday  at  last  arrived  and  I  found  myself  standing 
before  the  "bar  of  justice."  I  wanted  the  ordeal  over, 
yet  dreaded  it.  But  at  precisely  10  o'clock,  even  as  the 
hour  tolled  dolorously  from  the  court  house  tower,  his 
Honor  bustled  in  from  his  chambers  and  took  his  place 
on  the  bench.  He  bowed  mechanically  to  one  or  two  prom- 
inent attorneys  and  wiped  his  spectacles  abstractedly. 

Strange  to  say,  I  liked  "his  Honor."  Intuitively  I 
knew  he  was  a  man  with  a  heart.  Once  during  the  trial 
he  had  caught  the  smile  with  which  I  had  interpreted 
what  had  been  intended  as  a  serious  assertion  by  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney.  I  had  endeavored  to  suppress  the  smile 
when  I  saw  him  observing  me,  but  felt  immensely  relieved 
and  grateful  when  he  smiled  in  return. 

A  man  who  could  sense  that  I  had  intended  no  disre- 
spect or  levity,  and  a  man  who  could  think  in  the  same 
groove  as  myself  certainly  could  not  deal  with  me  un- 
justly. 

Immediate  events  did  not  justify  this  conception  of 
"his  Honor,"  but  subsequent  events  did — I  was  not  at 
fault  in  believing  him  to  be  a  man  of  heart. 

I  was  exceedingly  interested  in  all  that  transpired.  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  interested?  Was  not  I  the  particular  de- 
lectation scheduled  for  that  morning's  gratification  of  the 
rows  of  morbid  spectators  behind  me? 

In  blatant  tones  the  bailiff  announced  that  the  court 


18  My  Life  in  Prison 

was  in  session.  Immediate  quiescence  settled  over  the 
room.  Only  the  hoarse  cry  of  a  fruit  peddler  on  the 
outside  violated  the  solemnity  of  the  moment. 

The  judge  began  speaking — something  about  regret 
and  his  "painful  duty"  and  the  "protection  of  society." 

The  reporters  wrote  rapidly. 

At  last  came  the  climax,  " and  the  judgment  of 

this  court  is  that  you  be  punished  by  imprisonment  in  the 
State  prison  at  San  Quentin"  for  the  term  of  fifteen  years." 

The  deputy  who  had  me  in  charge  quickly  placed  his 
hand  under  my  armpit,  ostensibly  to  keep  me  from  fall- 
ing. 

Next  morning  the  papers  stated  that  I  had  collapsed 
and  had  to  be  assisted  from  the  room.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  had  been  repeating  "fifteen  years"  to  myself  for 
five  days,  steeling  myself  to  hear  it  without  a  tremor,  and 
I  was  elated  at  the  thought  of  getting  away  from — the 
lice. 

The  penitentiary  would  be  clean  and  wholesome,  at 
least. 

I  was  taken  to  San  Quentin  on  the  24th  day  of  July, 
1901.  The  day  was  perfect  and  the  world  seemed  to  be 
a  particularly  desirable  place  to  stay  in. 

People  were  laughing  and  chatting  and  care-free.  Many 
of  them  were  starting  off  on  their  summer  vacation. 

By  holding  a  newspaper  folded  once  before  me  I  man- 
aged to  conceal  the  manacles  that  pinched  my  wrists  and 
prevented  me  from  slapping  at  a  fly  that  seemed  deter- 
mined on  buzzing  an  insect  secret  into  my  ear. 

No  wonder  people  were  gay  and  happy  and  care-free — 
they  didn't  know  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  prison  for  a 
long  term  of  years. 

I  had  been  in  jail  several  weeks.  Consequently,  I  no- 
ticed everything.  The  visitor  to  a  jail  notices  small 
details  and  carries  off  a  composite  impression  from  them. 


Donald  Lowrie  19 

The  jail  inmate  does  not  see  these  details — they  are 
commonplaces  of  his  existence.  But  when  the  jail  inmate 
goes  out  into  the  world  he  notices  details  also — the  com- 
monplaces that  are  unseen  by  free  men  and  women. 

His  first  impression  is  that  of  immensity — he  is  blinded 
by  distance.  He  is  also  intoxicated  with  the  pure  air,  so 
sweet  and  grateful  after  the  long  days  and  nights  of  chlo- 
ride of  lime,  carbonized  atmosphere  of  jail.  Disinfectants 
are  typical  of  jail;  they  are  responsible  for  the  "jail 
smell" ;  they  are  the  mute  apologies  for  a  paucity  of  soap 
and  water  and  the  absence  of  God's  sunshine. 

And  speaking  of  God's  sunshine,  the  man  just  out  of 
jail  wilts  in  it.  At  first  it  vitalizes  and  invigorates,  but 
not  for  long.  The  contrast  is  too  marked.  In  a  few  min- 
utes it  enervates  and  depresses  and  makes  the  head  swim. 

Jail  atmosphere  is  always  several  degrees  lower  than 
that  of  the  outside  world — it  is  always  cellar-like.  Long 
immurement  deadens  one's  sensibility  to  this.  Conse- 
quently, upon  entering  the  sunlight,  the  first  thrills  of 
pleasure  and  gratitude  are  soon  replaced  by  discomfort 
and  lassitude.  It  was  so  on  that  July  day  ten  years  ago. 

The  cool  waiting-room  at  the  ferry  building  was  an 
oasis — it  afforded  shelter  from  the  sun.  A  little  child 
came  running  toward  us  in  chase  of  a  ball,  but  stopped 
and  cocked  her  golden  head  questioningly.  Apparently 
she  sensed  that  the  man  with  the  newspaper  hanging  over 
his  hands  was  different  from  other  persons. 

The  Deputy  Sheriff  kicked  the  ball  toward  her  and  she 
ran  happily  away.  A  tall,  graceful  girl  sank  languidly 
into  the  seat  opposite  us  and  munched  comfortably  from 
a  box  of  bonbons. 

The  incongruity  of  eating  in  public  struck  home,  yet 
made  a  pretty  picture — a  picture  that  has  remained  un- 
dimmed  for  ten  years.  She  wore  a  plaid  dress.  I  wonder 
where  she  is  now? 


20  My  Life  in  Prison 

On  the  ferry-boat  we  occupied  one  of  the  benches  be- 
side the  space  reserved  for  vehicles.  It  was  noon  and  I 
watched  a  teamster  unbridle  and  feed  his  horses.  From 
the  methodical  way  in  which  he  went  about  it  I  knew  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  making  noonday  trips  to  Tiburon.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  he  was  an  economist ;  he  fed  his  team 
while  in  transit. 

There  were  other  teams  on  the  boat,  but  none  of  them 
were  at  dinner.  I  fell  to  studying  the  horses.  The  bay 
was  a  nervous  animal  and  kept  tossing  its  head  in  efforts 
to  get  more  satisfying  mouthfuls  of  oats.  With  each  toss 
a  quantity  of  oats  spilled  from  the  nosebag  and  pattered 
to  the  deck.  Its  mate  had  more  sense — horse  sense,  per- 
haps. It  balanced  its  feed-bag  on  the  neckyoke  in  front 
and  had  no  difficulty  in  regulating  its  supply. 

I  speculated  a  good  deal  on  those  horses.  The  nervous 
one  was  thin  and  looked  worried ;  the  other  sleek  and  con- 
tented. Two  men  in  the  seat  ahead  attracted  my  atten- 
tion. One,  a  spare,  sallow  man,  was  talking  shrilly.  It 
was  something  about  money.  His  companion  placidly 
puffed  a  cigar  and  listened.  I  compared  them  with  the 
horses. 

The  deputy  who  had  me  in  charge  at  last  became  aware 
of  my  abstraction  and  mistook  it  for  despondency. 

"Let's  go  and  have  a  couple  of  drinks,"  he  suggested 
kindly,  rising. 

When  I  declined  he  seemed  to  be  disconcerted.  Ap- 
parently, with  him,  a  "drink"  was  the  panacea  for  any 
situation. 

But  why  should  I  take  a  drink?  I  had  been  in  jail  sev- 
eral weeks  without  a  drink — save  water  and  "bootleg." 
Why  should  I  drink  now?  Certainly  I  did  not  need  any 
"Dutch"  courage  to  enter  prison. 


CHAPTER  III 

My  first  glimpse  of  San  Quentin  prison  was  decidedly 
depressing.  It  looked  bleak  and  ugly — a  scar  on  the  land- 
scape. Somehow  I  thought  of  the  black  hole  of  Lucknow 
and  that  awful  summer  day  in  the  fifties.  As  the  train 
wound  in  and  out  through  the  Marin  county  hills  and 
vales  the  prison,  silhouetted  on  a  bare  promontory, 
seemed  beckoning  me.  Presently  it  was  hidden  by  inter- 
vening hills,  and  the  train  drew  up  at  a  small,  barnlike 
station.  I  expected  the  brakeman  to  call  San  Quentin, 
but  he  said  "Green  Brae !" 

A  rickety,  dust-begrimed  stage  awaited  us.  There  were 
several  other  passengers.  Instinctively  I  knew  they  were 
connected  with  the  prison,  and  I  dropped  the  newspaper. 
The  handcuffs  did  not  attract  attention.  An  utter  in- 
difference characterized  the  passengers — they  talked  and 
laughed  among  themselves  quite  naturally.  But  I  caught 
a  fleeting,  half-shamed  glance  of  sympathy  from  the  brown 
eyes  of  an  awkward,  freckle-faced  schoolgirl.  It  did  me 
good — I  still  remember  it. 

Passing  through  the  "patent  gate"  that  marks  the  west- 
ern boundary  of  the  prison  reservation,  my  attention  was 
drawn  to  another  scarification  of  the  earth. 

I  gazed,  appalled. 

Slowly  it  dawned  upon  me  that  I  was  looking  into  the 
prison  cemetery.  There  was  no  green  thing  near — noth- 
ing but  bare,  dirty-yellow  earth.  Rows  of  white  boards, 

21 


22  My  Life  in  Prison 

each  with  its  black  number  staring  out  over  the  road, 
marked  the  last  resting  place  of  hundreds  of  men — and 
some  women — who  had  passed  that  same  spot,  living, 
breathing  entities,  and  they  had  gazed  horrifiedly,  just  as 
I  gazed.  I  shuddered. 

What  had  Fate  in  store  for  me?  Would  my  number 
ever  stare  at  future  men  in  handcuffs  on  their  way  to 
the  grim  walls  beyond  ?„  Then  I  thought  of  other  aspects. 
How  must  a  mother  feel  as  she  passed  that  sepulchral 
place  on  her  way  to  visit  her  wayward  boy?  what  emotions 
are  evoked  in  the  breast  of  the  condemned  man  as  his 
hopeless  eyes  are  assailed  with  this  horrible  reminder  of 
his  fate? 

What  complete  indifference,  to  human  sensibilities  was 
responsible  for  placing  this  graveyard  at  the  very  en- 
trance to  the  penitentiary? 

My  melancholy  thoughts  were  diverted  by  a  herd  of  lit- 
tle calves — all  brown  and  white — which  gazed  round-eyed 
as  we  passed  the  prison  ranch  house.  Presently  a  horse 
guard,  with  rifle  slung  across  his  lap,  fell  in  behind  the 
stage.  He  seemed  to  have  dropped  from  nowhere. 

"Yes,  that's  where  the  guards  practise  shooting.  Each 
guard  is  required  to  make  30  out  of  a  possible  50  at  the 
yearly  test,  in  order  to  hold  his  job,"  said  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers in  reply  to  a  question,  pointing  at  a  rifle  range. 

The  range  was  200  yards,  but  I  afterward  learned  that 
a  number  of  the  guards  shot  "forty-five"  regularly.  Not 
much  chance  for  a  fellow  to  make  a  run  for  it ! 

We  were  rattling  under  the  first  gatling  gun  post 
now.  Liberty  post  it  is  called,  because  it  is  the  last  post 
passed  by  the  outgoing  prisoner.  At  that  time  it  ha<5  a 
draped  statue  of  Liberty,  the  handiwork  of  an  old  Ger- 
man "lifer,"  on  top.  Poor  old  "Bismarck" ! — he  never  saw 
his  statue  after  it  left  his  hands  in  the  prison  cabinet  shop. 


Donald  Lowrie  23 

True,  he  passed  the  spot,  but  his  "going-out"  suit  was  of 
wood. 

Approaching  the  prison  I  saw  striped  figures  at  work 
in  the  vegetable  gardens.  They  did  not  look  up  as  we 
passed.  Some  had  dampened  red  handkerchiefs  on  their 
heads  to  keep  off  the  sun.  Yet  straw  farm  hats  are  cheap ! 

As  the  stage  drew  up  before  the  black  prison  portcullis 
I  felt  relieved.  The  days  of  dread  and  hope  were  done. 
The  moment  had  arrived.  A  new  life  was  at  hand.  Hence- 
forth I  was  to  be  a  convict,  and  afterward — if  there  should 
be  an  afterward — an  ex-convict.  I  should  never  again  be 
a  free  and  natural  human  being.  I  had  made  a  mistake. 
This  was  the  penalty. 

At  the  main  entrance  to  the  penitentiary  we  were  halted 
by  the  gatekeeper,  who  unlocked  and  held  open  a  drawer 
in  his  desk.  The  Deputy  Sheriff  who  had  me  in  charge 
was  evidently  accustomed  to  delivering  prisoners  there, 
for  he  at  once  produced  an  ugly-looking  revolver. 

The  weapon  fascinated  me.  Until  that  moment  I  had 
entertained  no  idea  that  my  custodian  was  armed.  But 
one  of  the  rules  of  the  prison  is  that  no  arms  of  any 
description  are  permitted  inside  the  walls,  save  after  lock- 
up at  night,  when  the  dog-watch  go  on  duty  in  the  little 
guard-posts  close  to  and  surrounding  the  cell  buildings, 
and  the  day  watch  comes  off  the  walls  and  from  the  gat- 
ling  gun  towers  beyond. 

As  the  deputy  laid  the  gun  in  the  drawer  I  saw  there 
were  other  revolvers  there;  also  a  bottle  of  whisky  that 
had  been  left  by  some  visitor  who  was  making  the  rounds 
inside.  The  revolver  filled  me  with  loathing  and  resent- 
ment. It  had  been  brought  along  for  use  on  me — not  on 
anybody  else,  but  me. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  upon  a  loaded  revol- 
rer  that  has  been  intended  for  use  on  you.  A  long-for- 
gotten picture  of  a  thief  trying  to  escape  in  a  crowded 


24  My  Life  in  Prison 

city  street  came  back  to  me.  I  recalled  how  I  had  joined 
in  the  chase,  how  the  hound  instinct  had  been  aroused  in 
me  by  the  contagion  of  the  moment,  and  how  the  man  who 
finally  ran  the  poor  wretch  down  puffed  out  his  chest  and 
talked  as  if  he  had  done  something  big  and  noble. 

Perhaps  he  had,  but  the  picture  of  the  emaciated  and 
ragged  culprit,  gasping  for  breath  after  his  heart-break- 
ing effort  to  escape,  his  face  a  study  of  mingled  hopeless- 
ness and  defiance,  surrounded  by  the  exultant  mob,  came 
vividly  before  me.  I  saw  the  hole  in  his  hat  as  though  it 
had  been  yesterday.  But  at  the  time  I  had  felt  with  the 
mob — we  had  succeeded  in  capturing  a  thief.  Now,  how- 
ever, I  knew  how  the  thief  must  have  felt,  and  wondered 
how  many  of  the  others  who  had  assisted  in  the  capture 
had  come  to  feel  like  the  thief  felt. 
There  are  two  sides  to  everything. 

While  these  thoughts  were  racing  through  my  mind  the 
deputy  deftly  removed  the  handcuffs  from  my  wrists,  and 
we  passed  through  the  man-gate  into  the  arcade  that  leads 
to  the  prison  yard.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  arcade 
a  prisoner  opened  a  second  man-gate,  part  of  a  massive 
steel  portal.  I  observed  this  man  closely,  for  it  ran  in 
my  mind  that  his  position  must  be  the  acme  of  trust  for  a 
prisoner.  I  afterward  learned  that  he  was  "doing  it  all" 
and  had  twenty-two  years'  service  behind  him.  He  didn't 
look  it — appearances  are  very  deceptive  in  prison. 

My  first  impression  on  entering  the  yard  was  that  of 
surprise.  I  had  expected  to  see  massive  bars  and  rigid 
discipline.  Instead  I  saw  a  beautiful  flower  garden,  a 
fountain  surmounted  by  a  figure  of  a  white  swan,  in  the 
centre.  Two  or  three  prisoners,  with  thin,  drawn  faces, 
were  at  work  in  this  garden.  They  were  consumptives 
and  were  given  this  light  outdoor  work  to  prolong  their 
lives.  One  of  them,  I  later  ascertained,  was  a  "lifer,"  and 
the  irony  of  prolonging  his  penance  appalled  me.  What 


Donald  Lowrle  25 

was  the  use?  Still  I  knew  it  was  a  humane  motive  that 
had  given  him  the  place  in  the  garden,  close  to  God's 
promise  of  heaven — the  flowers. 

We  were  received  by  the  Captain  of  the  Yard — -at  that 
time  an  old  man  who  had  been  engaged  in  prison  work 
all  his  life.  He  held  out  his  hand  and  the  deputy  gave 
him  my  commitment. 

"Fifteen  years,"  he  commented,  glancing  at  the  docu- 
ment and  scanning  the  indorsements.  "It's  about  time 
you  were  bringing  us  somebody  with  more  than  a  year  or 
two — these  short-termers  are  overrunning  the  place." 

He  favored  me  with  a  prolonged  scrutiny,  and  then  led 
the  deputy  into  his  office  to  make  out  the  receipt,  leaving 
me  in  charge  of  the  turnkey. 

After  a  thorough  "frisk"  I  was  escorted  to  the  photo- 
graph gallery  and  "mugged,"  with  my  prison  number  at- 
tached to  my  breast.  During  the  preparations  of  the  pho- 
tographer I  glanced  down  at  this  number.  It  was  19,093. 

The  assistant  photographer  noted  my  interest. 

"Oh,  don't  worry,"  he  said;  "it  don't  add  thirteen." 

I  was  not  told  to  look  pleasant  when  the  moment  ar- 
rived for  taking  the  picture,  simply  admonished  to  keep 
my  eyes  still.  The  operation  over,  I  was  bustled  to  the 
bathroom  and  ordered  to  strip. 

My  body  was  carefully  inspected  by  the  Chinaman  in 
charge — a  highbinder  serving  life — to  see  that  I  had  noth- 
ing concealed  between  my  toes  or  any  other  possible  place. 

I  could  not  see  the  necessity  and  did  not  understand 
the  object  of  this  examination,  and  it  was  very  humiliat- 
ing. Subsequently  I  learned  that  it  had  to  be  done  to 
prevent  the  smuggling  of  "dope"  into  the  prison. 

At  last  the  officer  in  charge  seemed  satisfied  and  I  was 
ordered  into  the  tub. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  the  Chinaman  to  tell  me  to 
"wash-ee  heap  lot;  scrub-urn  good,"  for  I  had  never  felt 


26  My  Life  In  Prison 

happier  at  being  in  a  tub  of  warm  water.  It  was  my  firs£ 
real  bath  since  my  arrest.  The  Chinaman  was  much  elated 
at  the  way  I  took  it. 

"Heap  good,"  he  kept  repeating;  "all-ee  same  China- 
man ;  like-ee  heap  clean.  Lots  white  men  no  like-ee  water." 

The  praise  did  me  good.  It  was  the  first  word  of  com- 
mendation I  had  received  from  anyone  since  my  arrest. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  John?"  I  inquired. 

"Five  thousand  eight  hundled  fi'ty-five  days  to-day. 
To-moller  five  thousand  eight  hundled  fi-ty-sic." 

He  seemed  to  take  great  pride  in  his  statement,  and  I 
afterward  learned  that  he  kept  account  of  his  time  in  this 
way  and  was  always  primed  to  tell  the  exact  number  of 
days  he  had  served. 

At  that  moment  another  prisoner  entered  the  bathroom 
with  my  new  clothes. 

"Here's  your  summer  suit,"  he  observed  pleasantly.  "No 
charge." 

He  laid  the  garments  on  the  chair,  dropped  the  shoes 
like  two  bricks,  and  disappeared. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  dressed,  and  felt  very  uncom- 
fortable. The  underclothing  was  coarse  and  heavy,  as 
were  the  outer  garments.  The  "top  shirt"  was  of  stripes, 
black  and  white,  each  about  an  inch  and  a  quarter  in 
width  and  running  horizontally.  The  stripes  of  the  outer 
garments  were  perpendicular.  The  clothing  was  entirely 
new  and  sweet,  but  the  stripes  hurt.  I  was  very  conscious 
of  them.  Most  prisoners  get  used  to  the  stripes  and  for- 
get them.  I  never  did.  I  feel  them  yet.  I  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  walk  confidently  in  the  brogans.  They  had  no 
shape  and  the  soles  were  slippery.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  two 
chunks  of  lead  tied  loosely  at  my  ankles. 

Crossing  the  yard  to  the  barber  shop,  I  was  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  eyes,  and  I  felt  like  an  arrival  from  some 


Donald  Lowrie  27 

strange  planet,  dropped  into  an  unknown  place  on  this 
one. 

"New  man!"  shouted  my  guide,  half  shoving  me 
through  the  barber  shop  doorway. 

I  was  taken  in  charge  by  one  of  the  barbers  and  es- 
corted to  the  chair.  "How'll  yer  have  yer  hair  cut?"  he 
asked,  with*  well-simulated  sincerity.  "Puff,  shingle- — any 
way  yer  like." 

I  was  rather  surprised  to  find  so  much  of  what  seemed 
to  be  levity.  Like  the  public  in  general,  I  had  imagined 
that  men  in  prison  went  around  with  elongated  counte- 
nances and  an  expression  of  chronic  gloom.  Instead  I 
found  smiles  and  indifference — or  feigned  indifference. 
Every  man  realizes  that  self-pity,  or  a  bid  for  sympathy, 
is  despicable.  The  jocular  sarcasm  I  learned  was  merely 
an  effort  to  delude  themselves  and  each  other  that  they 
didn't  mind.  It  was  the  innate,  manly  trait  of  "game- 
ness." 

Many  a  smiling  face  in  prison — just  as  in  the  world 
at  large — conceals  a  tortured,  despairing  soul. 

Although  I  felt  anything  but  gay  or  indifferent,  I  im- 
mediately adopted  the  barber's  mood. 

"Oh,  cut  it  summer  style,  to  match  my  suit,"  I  laughed. 

Even  as  I  spoke  the  clippers  were  dropped  on  to  my 
skull,  not  gently  and  obsequiously,  but  roughly,  so  much 
so  that  it  hurt.  The  man  may  have  been  a  capable  barber 
outside,  but  I  doubt  it.  At  all  events,  he  would  have  to 
develop  more  concern  for  the  feelings  of  a  patron  if  he 
expected  to  do  that  sort  of  work  in  free  life  again. 

My  hair  began  falling  in  bunches  and  in  two  minutes 
was  all  gone.  The  barber  sarcastically  held  a  small  mir- 
ror before  my  face  so  that  I  might  see  the  result. 

"How  does  it  suit?"  he  asked  in  mock  concern. 

I  regarded  myself  critically.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
my  adult  life  that  I  had  seen  my  cranial  "bumps." 


28  My  Ltfe  In  Prison 

"I'm  afraid  you  left  some  of  the  roots,"  I  replied. 

"Yes,  I  miss  them  occasionally,"  he  laughed,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  shave  me. 

From  the  barber  shop  I  returned  to  the  photograph 
gallery.  In  addition  to  taking  a  picture  of  the  incoming 
prisoner,  as  he  appears  in  "free"  clothes,  he  is  also  photo- 
graphed in  stripes,  front  view  and  profile,  with  a  "slate" 
showing  his  number,  name,  term,  crime,  the  county  from 
which  he  has  been  committed  and  his  age  and  place  of 
nativity. 

My  next  experience  was  with  the  Lieutenant  of  the 
Yard.  I  sat  on  the  "mourners'  bench"  and  he  stood  be- 
fore me,  instructing  me  as  to  the  rules  of  the  prison. 

"Always  fold  your  arms  when  crossing  the  yard.  Don't 
talk  in  the  dining-room  and  don't  carry  food  from  the 
table.  Don't  trade  with  other  prisoners.  Don't  leave 
your  work  without  permission.  Always  remove  your  cap 
when  speaking  to  the  Captain.  You  are  permitted  to  write 
one  letter  a  month." 

There  was  a  lot  more,  altogether  too  much  for  me  to 
retain,  and  I  was  obliged  to  learn  most  of  the  rules  by 
observation  and  by  asking  questions  of  my  fellow  pris- 
oners. 

Many  new  prisoners  learn  the  rules  by  breaking  them 
and  being  punished  therefor,  and  I  have  often  wondered 
why  a  little  pamphlet  containing  all  the  rules  has  not  been 
printed.  By  giving  each  incoming  prisoner  one  of  the^e 
pamphlets  much  trouble  could  be  avoided,  though  they 
would  have  to  be  printed  in  Spanish  and  in  Chinese,  as 
well  as  in  English.  Illiterates — and  there  are  quite  a  few 
— would,  of  course,  have  to  be  instructed  orally. 

I  remained  on  the  mourners'  bench  about  an  hour  and 
was  then  taken  to  the  Bertillon  room.  A  group  of  visi- 
tors happened  to  be  there  and  I  was  used  as  a  subject  for 
their  edification. 


Donald  Lowrie  29 

The  finger  print  process  interested  me.  Each  of  my! 
ten  digits  was  inked  and  an  impression  taken,  and  then 
each  hand  was  taken  as  a  whole,  all  five  fingers  simultane- 
ously. There  are  especially  prepared  blanks  for  the 
purpose,  and  the  impression  of  each  finger,  and  of  each 
hand,  is  indicated  by  a  heading  printed  over  the  space 
reserved  for  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  finger-print  incfentification  is 
infallible.  The  records  are  classified  so  that  an  identity 
may  be  established  readily.  Also,  the  careless  touching 
of  a  finger  may  be  "developed."  After  you  have  handled 
a  book  or  touched  a  table  the  lines  of  your  fingers  may  be 
brought  out  and  the  classification  established  any  time 
within  twelve  hours  afterward. 

With  the  inauguration  of  the  central  bureau  of  criminal 
identification  at  Leavenworth,  and  the  general  adoption 
of  the  finger-print  records  and  classification,  the  time  is 
surely  at  hand  when  the  professional  criminal  can  no  lon- 
ger hope  to  conceal  his  past.  This  is  a  step  in  the 
right  direction  and  will  tend  to  reduce  the  number  of  real 
criminals  at  large. 

After  my  finger  prints  had  been  taken  I  was  ordered 
to  strip  to  the  waist,  and  the  turnkey  proceeded  to  meas- 
ure me  for  the  Bertillon  record.  I  was  very  much  im- 
pressed by  the  manner  in  which  he  went  at  it.  It  looked 
like  a  complicated  process,  but  he  had  learned  to  save 
time  by  working  along  the  lines  of  least  resistance,  and  got 
several  of  the  measurements  before  I  was  aware  of  his 
purpose. 

Next  I  was  taken  to  the  turnkey's  office  and  subjected 
to  a  long  series  of  stereotyped  questions  and  asked  to  sign 
my  name  to  the  effect  that  I  had  no  money  or  valuables 
on  my  person  when  received;  also  giving  the  prison  au- 
thorities permission  to  open,  inspect,  retain  or  destroy 
any  mail  or  express  matter  that  might  be  addressed  to  me. 


80  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  was  then  asked  if  there  was  anyone  I  desired  to  Have 
notified  in  the  event  of  my  death. 

"No  one,"  I  instantly  replied,  and  regretted  it  a  mo- 
ment later. 

Returning  to  the  clothing  department,  I  was  given 
two  pairs  of  blankets  and  a  change  of  underwear,  labelled 
with  my  number,  as  were  all  my  garments.  The  China- 
man then  escorted  me  to  a  mattress  room  and  I  was  given 
a  mattress.  I  flung  it  over  my  shoulder,  and  with  the  blan- 
kets under  my  arm  and  the  extra  clothing  dangling  from 
my  free  hand,  followed  the  celestial  to  my  cell. 

"When  bell  ring  to-night,  you  come  here — savvy?"  he 
instructed. 

I  glanced  at  the  number  on  the  cell  door.  It  was  34 — 
34  Tank.  There  were  five  bunks  in  the  cell,  steamer 
style,  one  of  which  was  without  a  mattress.  I  laid  my 
belongings  in  this  bunk  and  then  followed  my  guide  to  the 
yard,  where  he  left  me. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  had  no  sooner  been  left  alone  in  the  prison  yard  than 
I  was  approached  by  a  tall,  sorrowful-looking  man  whose 
age  I  judged  to  be  about  45. 

"Wadger  bring?"  he  asked,  leading  me  to  the  board  ex- 
tending between  the  posts  of  the  shed  provided  for  shelter 
from  the  rain,  upon  which  we  seated  ourselves. 

I  failed  to  understand  the  significance  of  this  question 
and  thought  he  referred  to  the  property  I  might  have  had 
on  my  person. 

"Oh,  only  a  handkerchief  or  two,"  I  replied. 

He  laughed.  "No,  no ;  I  don't  mean  that.  What  sort 
of  a  package?" 

"Package?"  I  asked.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  what  did  his  Honor  hand  you?" 

"Oh,  you  mean  the  sentence?"    I  queried. 
.     "Yes,"  he  responded.     "How  long'd  yer  get?" 

"Fifteen  years,"  I  replied. 

"Huh,  that's  easy.  Yer  kin  do  that  on  yer  head.  Wad- 
ger think  I'm  doin?" 

I  hesitated  before  replying.  If  fifteen  years  was  "easy" 
he  must  be  doing  a  much  longer  period.  While  I  was  still 
hesitating  he  answered  his  own  question. 

"I'm  doin'  it  all,  an'  I  been  here  fifteen  already." 

He  made  this  announcement  with  evident  pride,  as  if 
he  expected  me  to  voice  great  surprise  and  concern. 

I'll  have  to  admit  that  I  was  shocked.    I  had  heard  and 

31 


32  My  Life  in  Prison 

read  of  life  prisoners,  but  this  was  the  first  one  I  had  ever 
talked  with.  The  remembrance  has  remained  with  me  be- 
cause of  that  fact,  but  long  before  I  left  San  Quentin  a 
life  prisoner  became  commonplace  and  excited  no  wonder 
and  not  a  great  deal  of  sympathy.  It  all  depended  upon 
the  individual's  temperament.  Observing  this  particular 
man  during  the  six  months  following  my  arrival,  I  saw  that 
he  got  the  ear  of  every  new  man  and  then  posed,  made  a 
bid  for  sympathy,  poor  fellow,  the  same  as  he  had  done 
with  me. 

We  sat  there  for  an  hour,  and  he  told  me  about  his  life 
and  the  act  that  shattered  it.  He  had  been  a  successful 
rancher  and  had  killed  his  young  wife  because  she  per- 
sisted in  infidelity. 

I  could  readily  appreciate  that  he  would  jar  on  a  wom- 
an's nerves,  for  he  was  very  selfish  and  inconsiderate,  and 
talked  about  himself  and  indulged  in  self-pity  almost  ex- 
clusively. Still,  he  did  not  talk  nor  look  like  a  man  who 
would  commit  murder. 

Several  times  I  tried  to  interrupt  his  repetition  of  the 
facts  concerning  his  own  case  to  ask  something  about  the 
conditions  surrounding  us,  but  invariably  he  returned  to 
his  own  affairs,  apparently  much  soothed  by  my  expres- 
sions of  counterfeit  concern  and  sympathy. 

Some  years  later  this  man  succeeded  in  getting  a  pa- 
role, only  to  commit  suicide. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  he  did  so,  and  can  only  ac- 
count for  it  on  the  supposition  that  he  could  not  find  the 
human  sympathy  he  craved — so  self-mdulgently.  Never 
once  during  the  years  I  knew  him  did  he  refer  to  his  vic- 
tim save  in  scorn,  nor  did  he  ever  express  any  regret  at  the 
sorrow  he  had  brought  upon  her  mother  and  father. 

Yet  persons  unfamiliar  with  all  the  facts,  and  not  know- 
ing the  man  intimately,  as  I  did,  are  prone  to  condemn 
me  for  judging  him  fairly.  Have  I  the  right  to  form 


Donald  Lowrie  33 

judgment  on  any  man?  That  is  for  you  to  answer.  I 
know  I  am  honest,  that  I  see  both  sides  of  the  prison 
system,  and  that  I  want  to  temper  sympathy  and  under- 
standing with  fairness  and  even  with  condemnation  of  the 
"under  dog"  sometimes.  I  condemn  myself. 

I  noticed  a  small  negro,  a  little,  thin  creature,  with 
sunken  cheeks  and  big  sorrowful  eyes,  who  wore  a  red 
shirt. 

"Why  is  he  wearing  a  red  shirt?"  I  asked. 

"Fer  trvin'  to  beat  th'  place,"  answered  my  acquain- 
tance. "He's  doin'  35  years  an'  has  the  T.  B.  They 
put  him  to  work  outside,  in  the  vegetable  garden,  on  ac- 
count of  his  health,  and  he  copped  a  sneak  one  day.  Got 
clear  over  the  hill,  right  under  the  nose  of  'three  post.' 
So  small  I  guess  they  didn't  see  him.  They  rang  the  big 
bell  and  we  was  all  locked  up  while  they  went  out  to  run 
him  down.  Found  him  hidin'  in  a  barn  'bout  three  miles 
from  here  an'  brought  him  back.  They  allus  puts  a  red 
shirt  on  them  as  tries  to  make  a  getaway." 

I  have  forgotten  the  little  negro's  name  now,  but  used 
to  watch  and  pity  him.  Never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  a 
human  countenance  with  such  an  expression  of  absolute 
hopelessness. 

About  three  months  after  I  entered  the  prison  the  lit- 
tle negro  disappeared.  Inquiry  developed  that  he  had 
at  last  been  taken  to  the  "old  hospital,"  where  the  incur- 
ables fret  out  their  last  weeks  on  earth.  I  never  saw  him 
again.  He  died  some  time  during  the  following  winter. 
I  wonder  how  black  his  soul  was? 

And  the  little  negro  served  a  purpose,  for  his  case  re- 
minds me  of  something  important.  When  a  prisoner  is 
taken  from  a  cell  at  San  Quentin  and  assigned  to  the  con- 
sumptives' ward  as  incurable  the  cell  which  he  vacates  is 
not  fumigated.  It  is  merely  swept  out,  sometimes  white- 


34  My  Life  In  Prison 

washed,  and  then  some  other  prisoner,  perKaps  a  young 
boy,  free  of  any  physical  taint,  is  assigned  to  it. 

The  floors  of  the  cells  at  San  Quentin  are  never  washed 
i  — the  construction  will  not  permit — and  the  ventilation  is 
!  fearful. 

:;  Only  a  person  who  has  spent  a  night  in  one  of  these 
cells  can  realize  what  it  means.  In  the  morning  the  out- 
side air  is  such  a  contrast  that  one  tastes  it.  Contagion 
is  bound  to  linger  in  these  cells,  and  many  a  healthy  pris- 
oner has  contracted  consumption  in  this  way. 

In  this  connection  I  noted  that  Indians  and  negroes  are 
more  prone  to  consumption  than  are  Chinese  and  whites. 
I  can  readily  understand  this  as  applied  to  Indians — they 
wilt  and  die  in  confinement ;  they  are  natural  outdoor  crea- 
tures— but  I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  why  negroes 
succumb  so  rapidly. 

To  be  absolutely  fair,  I  recall  that  at  one  time,  some 
years  ago,  an  order  was  issued  that  the  doctor  should 
report  all  cases  of  consumption  assigned  to  the  incurable 
ward,  so  that  the  cells  vacated  by  the  victims  might  be 
fumigated,  but,  like  many  other  orders,  this  one  has  long 
since  been  forgotten,  and  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and 
belief  nothing  is  now  done  to  prevent  the  contraction  of 
this  deadly  disease  along  the  lines  I  have  indicated. 

At  4 :15  a  whistle  blew  in  the  yard  and  my  new  acquain- 
tance told  me  it  was  for  supper,  and  I  lined  up  behind 
him.  There  were  only  a  few  men  in  the  upper  yard,  not 
more  than  one  hundred,  and  my  guide  informed  me  that 
I  would  see  the  mill  crowd  come  into  the  dining-room  from 
the  lower  entrance. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  impressions  of  the  mess 
hall.  It  is  partly  underground,  with  windows  on  one  side 
only,  and  is  about  four  hundred  feet  in  length.  An  im- 
mense building — the  old  sash  and  door  factory — cuts  off 
the  light  from  these  windows  so  that  it  is  often  necessary 


Donald  Lowrie  35 

to  have  artificial  light  for  the  midday  meal.  An  aisle  ex- 
tends down  the  centre  of  this  cellar-like  place,  and  long 
tables,  each  accommodating  twenty-two  persons,  run  out 
at  right  angles  on  either  side  of  this  aisle.  The  floor  is 
asphaltum  and  is  always  wet  or  damp.  The  walls  are 
whitewashed. 

Of  course  there  are  no  tablecloths  or  napkins — just  the 
plain  board  table.  Tinware  is  used  exclusively  and  is  al- 
ways rusty,  save  when  a  dozen  or  two  new  pans  are  added 
to  the  equipment. 

The  place  smells  worse  than  a  stable,  always,  but  more 
so  on  some  days  than  on  others. 

The  prisoners  file  into  this  place  indiscriminately,  the 
only  segregation  being  that  of  the  Chinese,  who  have  sep- 
arate tables.  Negroes,  Japanese,  Hindus,  syphilitics,  old 
men  without  teeth,  young  boys  with  huge  appetites,  line  up 
as  they  may  and  march  in,  to  the  general  trough. 

Under  the  present  warden  a  table  has  been  set  apart  for 
those  without  teeth — it  is  known  as  the  "toothless  table" 
— and  they  are  allowed  more  time  to  eat  than  is  accorded 
the  main  line. 

Twelve  minutes  is  the  regular  time  allowed  for  meals, 
and  the  food  is  served  in  pans,  each  prisoner  helping  him- 
self. No  service  spoons  or  ladles  are  provided.  Each 
prisoner  dips  into  the  common  receptacle  with  the  spoon 
with  which  he  eats.  This  is  especially  disgusting  on  "stew 
days." 

I  recall  one  man,  now  in  confinement  for  his  third  "jolt," 
known  as  "the  Russian."  His  face  is  covered  with  run- 
ning sores  which  he  keeps  plastered  with  some  kind  of 
white  ointment.  I  have  sat  opposite  this  man,  seen  him 
help  himself  to  a  portion  of  stew,  eat  it  voraciously  and 
then  dip  into  the  service  pan  with  the  same  spoon  with 
which  he  had  eaten. 

I  do  not  want  to  disgust  or  sicken  you,  and  hope  you  will 


36  My  Life  in  Prison 

forget  this  picture  before  you  get  home  to  dinner.  But 
if  you  ever  wonder  why  a  man  coming  out  of  prison  is  bit- 
ter and  feels  revengeful,  perhaps  this  one  minor  fact  will 
help  you  to  understand  and  tend  to  make  you  charitable. 

If  the  theory  of  imprisonment  is  purely  punitive  why, 
of  course,  this  and  other  horrors  should  not  be  condemned, 
but  if  there  is  the  least  idea  of  making  the  prisoner  a  bet- 
ter man,  of  reforming  him — and  I  believe  that  is  the  the- 
ory— then  these  things  should  be  known  to  the  public. 

As  I  have  said  before,  it  is  only  the  man  who  has  suf- 
fered them,  the  man  who  has  felt  them,  who  knows. 

Even  the  prison  officials — the  subordinates  who  see  these 
things  every  day — do  not  notice  them.  They  are  con- 
cerned in  maintaining  discipline  and  in  an  endeavor  to 
provide  enough  to  eat. 

The  food  itself  offers  no  cause  for  complaint.  It  is  ample 
and  wholesome,  especially  under  the  present  warden,  but 
there  is  much  to  be  desired  in  its  preparation  and  manner 
of  serving.  And  this  is  not  an  insignificant  detail.  If  a 
man  is  compelled  to  eat  like  a  pig  he  is  bound  to  acquire 
pig  instincts,  and  he  is  bound  to  carry  these  pig  instincts 
out  into  the  world  with  him.  True,  there  are  a  few  men, 
who  become  chronic  f asters,  eating  just  enough  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together,  but  are  they  not  also  irreparably 
injured? 

In  paying  the  penalty  for  crime — loss  of  liberty,  work- 
ing day  after  day  through  long  years  without  pay,  suf- 
fering the  stigma  of  the  convict  brand — does  not  an  of- 
fender expiate  his  crime  sufficiently? 

Should  he  be  reduced  to  the  level  of  a  brute,  should  he 
be  compelled  to  starve  his  body  because  of  higher  instincts 
which  are  inherent  and  which  he  cannot  help  having? 

Why  should  it  be  necessary? 

What  does  it  accomplish? 

Does  it  not  degrade  men  and  fill  them  with  bitterness? 


Donald  Lowrie  37 

Do  they  not  feel  that  they  have  been  cast  into  the  public 
filth  heap? 

Can  they  be  expected  to  become  better  men  under  such 
conditions  ? 

Some  one  may  say,  "Good!  That's  just  what  they  de- 
serve. It  will  teach  them  a  lesson.  They  will  be  so  hor- 
rified, so  disgusted,  that  they  will  never  return."  But  if 
your  boy,  your  husband,  your  father,  committed  crime, 
would  you  advocate  his  confinement  in  a  pigsty  ?  Of  course 
you  wouldn't.  You  might  be  broad  enough  to  admit  that 
a  prison  term  should  be  imposed  upon  him,  but  you  cer- 
tainly would  not  admit  that  he  should  be  reduced  to  the 
level  of  the  lowest  brute  in  order  to  "teach  him  a  lesson." 

That  is  merely  a  spirit  of  revenge  and  revenge  spells 
HATE.  Hate  always  breeds  hate. 

Sometimes  the  horror  of  these  conditions  dies  away ;  the 
victim  becomes  apathetic  and  an  apparent  indifference 
manifests — a  smouldering  hate.  I  have  seen  a  new  pris- 
oner sit  at  the  table  day  after  day,  nibbling  at  a  piece  of 
bread  and  sipping  his  "tea"  or  "coffee,"  and  then,  after 
the  lapse  of  a  few  months,  I  have  seen  this  same  man  sit 
down  at  the  table  and  eat  like  a  hog. 

Simply  the  result  of  the  system,  or,  perhaps,  you  may 
prefer  to  call  it  an  ability  to  adjust  himself  to  conditions 
— which  is  considered  a  desirable  trait. 

I  say  calmly  and  deliberately  that  few,  if  any,  men  are 
deterred  from  the  commission  of  crime  by  reason  of  the 
fear  of  the  consequences,  even  after  they  know  the  conse- 
quences down  to  the  last  sickening  detail.  If  I  felt  that 
anything  beneficial  to  anyone  were  accomplished  by  these 
conditions — and  others  which  I  shall  recount  later — I 
should  have  nothing  to  say.  But  I  know  that  degrada- 
tion and  a  spirit  of  revenge,  a  determination  to  retaliate, 
to  "get  even,"  is  frequently  the  result.  The  prisoner  is 
not  only  deprived  of  his  liberty,  but  also  of  his  self-re- 


88  My  Life  In  Prison 

spect  and  whatever  innate  sense  of  decency  he  may  possess. 

I  did  not  eat  anything  that  first  meal.  I  simply  sipped 
a  little  "tea."  I  was  impressed  by  the  utter  unconcern 
with  which  the  others  at  the  table  attacked  the  food — boil- 
ed beans,  bread  and  tea. 

A  man  wearing  gold  spectacles,  sitting  opposite  me,  at- 
tracted my  attention.  His  face  was  a  picture  of  chronic 
disgust,  yet  he  partook  of  everything.  Next  day  I  learned 
that  he  was  serving  the  last  month  of  a  fourteen-year  sen- 
tence which  had  been  imposed  for  forgery,  and  was  the 
son  of  a  man  prominent  in  public  life.  He  unburdened 
his  soul  to  me  before  he  left  the  prison,  and  was  determined 
to  redeem  himself,  but  didn't.  He  is  now  serving  a  long 
term  in  an  Eastern  prison. 

An  entire  book  could  be  written  about  this  one  man. 
He  is  purely  and  simply  a  "criminal"  of  the  system,  and 
should  be  an  honorable,  law-abiding  and  industrious  mem- 
ber of  society. 

But  most  of  these  things  should  be  presented  in  con- 
crete form.  It  is  tiresome  and  uninteresting  to  read  gen- 
eralities. Perhaps  before  I  finish,  I  may  be  able  to  con- 
vince you  that  a  pound  of  flesh  is  not  so  important  as  a 
human  soul.  I  hope  so. 

My  first  meal  in  the  penitentiary  was  not  a  success.  I 
could  not  eat  and  I  was  glad  when  the  signal  was  given 
to  march  out. 

It  requires  about  twelve  minutes  for  the  prisoners  to 
march  into  the  mess  hall,  and  as  the  last  ones  enter  the 
first  arrivals  begin  to  leave,  resulting  in  a  continuous  pro- 
cession of  striped  figures  along  the  centre  aisle. 

Stomach  trouble  is  common  among  prisoners,  and  I  have 
often  thought  that  the  twelve-minute  limit  is  responsible. 
Why  should  it  be  necessary  for  a  man  serving  life  to  eat  as 
if  a  train  were  waiting  for  him?  I  asked  an  old  prison 
keeper  about  this  one  day,  and  he  told  me  that  most  men 


Donald  Lowrie  39 

can  eat  all  they  want  in  twelve  minutes,  and  if  they  were 
waiting  until  the  slow  eaters  finished  they  would  get  un- 
easy and  disturbances  in  the  dining-room  would  become 
common. 

The  prisoners  are  not  permitted  to  talk  while  in  the 
mess  hall,  and  meals  seem  more  like  a  function,  a  part  of 
the  routine,  than  an  occasion  for  refreshment.  A  kind  of 
I'm-doing-this-to-stay-alive-and-not-because-I-want  to  ex- 
pression is  characteristic  on  the  faces  of  the  men  while 
at  meals. 

Passing  the  entrance  to  the  kitchen  on  my  way  to 
the  upper  yard  I  noticed  a  sign  over  the  clock — "Tempus 
Fugit."  It  was  a  pleasant,  optimistic  thought,  but  failed 
to  stir  any  appreciable  degree  of  acquiescence  in  me  at 
the  moment. 

In  the  yard  we  had  a  moment's  breathing  spell  before 
the  bell  rang  for  lock-up  and  I  was  the  centre  of  interest 
for  nearly  two  thousand  pairs  of  curious  eyes. 

The  new  arrival,  or  "fish,"  is  always  an  object  of  in- 
terest to  the  other  prisoners,  and  is  generally  kept  well 
occupied  answering  questions  about  the  outside  world — 
until  the  next  "fish"  drops  in. 

As  the  bell  started  ringing  there  was  a  stampede  for 
the  iron  stairways  of  the  four  cell  buildings. 

"Don't  lose  any  time,"  admonished  a  voice  behind  me. 
"It's  a  case  of  spending  the  night  at  the  springs  if  you're 
not  at  your  cell  for  the  count." 

In  answer  to  my  hurried  inquiry  about  "the  springs" 
he  informed  me  that  he  referred  to  "the  hole."  This  didn't 
sound  reassuring,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  more,  but  was  jos- 
tled away  from  my  informant,  and  lost  no  time  getting 
to  "34  tank." 

Now  a  peculiar  incident  of  one's  first  day  in  the  peni- 
tentiary is  that  one  doesn't  know  who  his  cellmates  are 
to  be.  I  knew  I  had  been  assigned  to  a  cell  containing 
five  bunks,  which  meant  four  cellmates,  but  I  did  not  know 


40  My  Life  in  Prison 

who  they  were,  whether  young  or  old,  grave  or  gay, 
healthy  or  unhealthy,  congenial  or  uncongenial. 

Arriving  at  the  cell  entrance,  I  found  three  men  stand- 
ing just  inside  the  doorway.  Before  I  had  time  to  "size 
them  up"  one  of  them  accosted  me: 

"Take  off  y'r  lid  an'  face  th'  light,"  he  ordered.  "TV 
bull  '11  be  goin'  by  f'r  th'  count  in  a  second." 

It  was  rather  an  abrupt  and  unconventioned  introduc- 
tion, but  I  did  as  I  was  told.  I  heard  the  doors  slamming 
all  about  me,  and  presently,  just  as  the  fifth  habitant  of 
the  cell  dodged  breathlessly  in,  the  "bull"  flitted  past. 

"Five,"  I  heard  him  mutter  as  he  glanced  at  our  faces. 

The  next  instant  the  door  slammed  violently  in  my 
face  and  the  bolts  and  bars  were  shot  into  place  by  the 
trusties  who  followed  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  counting 
officer— the  "bull." 

Outside  it  was  broad  daylight,  but  when  that  solid  steel 
door  slammed  shut  the  cell  became  dark.  It  was  like 
being  suddenly  dropped  into  antipodal  night.  One  of  my 
cellmates  immediately  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  coal 
oil  lamp. 

"Allus  look  out  f'r  y'r  fingers  when  dey  slams  dat  main 
entrance  t'  dis  hotel,"  he  admonished.  "A  new  guy  got 
his  mitt  cut  clean  in  two  las'  week;  had  it  in  th'  crack 
when  dey  slammed  th'  door.  Some  says  he  did  it  a  pur- 
pose, so's  t'  beat  th'  mill,  but  he  wuz  too  green  f'r  dat. 
I'll  show  him  t'  y'r  termorrer.  My  name's  Smoky  Ryan 
— dey  all  calls  me  Smoky." 

He  was  the  same  man  who  had  ordered  me  to  remove 
my  cap  a  moment  before,  and  I  observed  his  face  closely 
as  he  bent  over  the  lamp.  It  was  not  a  bad  face,  yet  was 
deeply  seared  with  the  marks  of  sensual  indulgence ;  also, 
his  eyes  were  small  and  a  trifle  too  close  together. 

True  to  my  inherent  trait  of  forming  conceptions  of 
persons  at  first  glance,  however,  I  felt  that  I  was  going 
to  like  him. 


Donald  Lowrle  41 

"Make  y'rself  't  home,"  he  suggested,  noting  that  I  was 
ill  at  ease  and  uncertain  what  to  do.  "But  whatever  y'r 
do,  never  put  y'r  lid  on  th'  piany  or  muss  up  th'  lace- 
curtains.  We  never  stands  f'r  dat,  do  we,  cullies?"  he 
finished,  addressing  the  others.  A  general  laugh  greeted 
this  pleasantry,  in  which  I  joined,  and  felt  better. 

The  other  three  men  undressed  immediately  and  crawled 
into  their  respective  bunks.  None  of  them  had  spoken  to 
me.  One  was  a  mere  boy,  stunted,  and  sickly  in  appear- 
ance; the  others  men  of  35  to  40,  one  a  very  light, 
straight-haired  blonde,  tall  and  with  pimpled  face;  the 
other  a  phlegmatic,  heavy-set  Italian. 

Smoky  moved  the  cell  furniture,  consisting  of  a  small, 
rickety  table  and  a  slop  bucket,  to  one  side,  and  then 
dragged  my  mattress  from  the  top  bunk,  where  I  had 
placed  it  earlier  in  the  afternoon. 

"Y'r  can't  sleep  on  dat  as  it  is,"  he  informed  me.  "Y'rd 
roll  out  th's  first  time  th'  ol'  ship  struck  a  high  wave." 

The  mattress  had  simply  been  stuffed  with  straw  and 
was  cylindrical  in  shape.  Placing  it  lengthwise  on  the 
rusty  steel  floor,  Smoky  proceeded  to  jump  up  and  down 
upon  it,  inviting  me  to  join  in.  I  did  so,  and  we  jumped 
up  and  down  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  until  we  had  the 
mattress  stamped  into  some  semblance  of  flatness. 

At  last  Smoky  seemed  satisfied  and  tossed  the  result  of 
our  handiwork — or  footwork — back  into  the  bunk.  It 
weighed  not  more  than  five  or  six  pounds.  The  stamping 
process  had  filled  the  small  eight  by  ten  tank  with  dust, 
and  the  lamp  had  already  consumed  most  of  the  oxygen — 
yet  we  had  been  locked  in  only  a  few  minutes. 

I  had  already  discovered  that  the  penitentiary  had 
many  advantages  over  the  police  station  and  the  county 
jail,  but  was  appalled  at  the  thought  of  spending  long 
nights  in  a  crowded  eight-by-ten  cell,  with  no  ventilation. 
Already  I  felt  choked. 


CHAPTER  Vj 

While  Smoky  was  arranging  my  bunk  I  peered  out 
through  the  slit  in  the  steel  door.  Outside  it  was  broad 
daylight,  the  sun  was  still  hours  high,  and  the  glare  of 
light  hurt  my  eyes.  I  saw  several  prisoners  crossing  the 
yard. 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  cooks,  an'  house  servants,  an*  office  men,"  replied 
Smoky,  coming  to  the  wicket  and  peeping  out  with  me. 
"Some  of  'em  don't  get  in  till  8  o'clock.  There's  three 
lock-ups  after  we  come  in." 

Later  I  learned  that  the  night  sergeant,  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  prison  after  5  p.  m.,  was  kept  busy  locking 
doors  and  checking  off  the  count  until  taps.  The  system 
was  to  "drop  the  lock"  of  each  cell  not  occupied  at  the 
regular  lock-up,  so  that  the  inmates  might  enter  at  any 
time  after  they  had  finished  their  duties,  the  sergeant 
making  regular  rounds  and  locking  them  in. 

Of  course  I  was  interested  in  my  other  cellmates,  and 
as  we  turned  away  from  the  wicket  I  spoke  to  one  of  them, 
the  tall  blonde. 

"What  did  you  bring?"  he  asked.  He  was  lying  in  the 
bottom  bunk,  opposite  the  door. 

Smoky  had  already  addressed  him  as  the  "Count,"  and 
I  later  learned  that  he  was  the  renegade  son  of  an  Alsa- 
tian family  of  some  standing.  He  had  finally  been  shipped 
to  America,  after  many  lapses  and  depredations  at  home, 

42 


Donald  Lowrie  43 

in  the  hope  that  he  might  straighten  up  and  "reform." 
He  spoke  with  a  German  accent  and  proved  to  be  a  hypo- 
chondriac, and  I  learned  that  he  was  the  proprietor  of  the 
array  of  bottles  in  the  corner  of  the  cell,  some  of  them 
thick  with  grease,  which  had  attracted  the  dust  and  made 
them  look  anything  but  inviting. 

At  that  time  prisoners  were  permitted  to  buy  medicines 
— and  some  of  them  went  the  limit. 

The  Count  imagined  he  was  the  victim  of  every  known 
— and  some  unknown — physical  ailment,  and  had  tonics 
galore — codliver  oil,  cherry  pectoral,  pills,  ointments  and 
other  concoctions,  and  took  as  many  as  five  doses  of  medi- 
cine during  the  first  half  hour  of  our  acquaintance. 

The  medicine  privilege  has  long  since  been  abolished, 
but  at  that  time  one  of  the  prison  officials  had  the  per- 
quisite of  selling  all  sorts  of  things  to  the  prisoners,  and 
made  about  50  per  cent,  on  every  sale.  Carpets,  rugs, 
mattresses,  sheets,  towels,  clocks,  underwear,  hats,  ties, 
socks,  shoes,  handkerchiefs,  medicines  and  even  feather 
pillows  could  be  purchased — if  the  prisoner  had  the  money. 
This  lasted  until  the  inmates  of  Red  Room — one  of  the 
dormitories  housing  about  forty  men — clubbed  together 
and  bought  six  dozen  bottles  of  patent  medicine,  got 
drunk  and  "whooped  it  up."  They  were  transferred  to  the 
dungeons  and  otherwise  punished. 

Strange  to  say,  the  incident  reached  the  Board  of  Di- 
rectors, and  an  order  was  issued  prohibiting  prisoners 
from  buying  anything,  even  towels  and  soap.  At  present 
the  men  are  permitted  to  buy  necessaries,  and  it  is  so  ar- 
ranged that  they  pay  the  minimum  price.  Soaps,  tooth 
brushes,  towels,  handkerchiefs,  tobacco  and  musical  sup- 
plies are  now  purchased  through  the  commissary  depart- 
ment at  wholesale  prices  and  sold  to  the  inmates  without 
profit  to  anyone.  This  is  but  one  of  many  minor  details 


44»  My  Life  in  Prison 

proving  the  fitness  and  fairness  of  the  present  warden, 
some  of  which  I  shall  recount  later. 

It  was  a  good  thing  to  abolish  the  sale  of  medicine,  for 
many  of  the  men,  not  knowing  what  use  to  make  of  the 
money  at  their  command  from  relatives,  spent  it  for  medi- 
cines that  they  really  didn't  need,  resulting  in  harm  to 
their  bodies  and  a  lowering  of  the  prison  discipline.  There 
was  always  a  great  demand  for  such  medicines  as  were 
thought  to  contain  "dope." 

Numbers  of  times  I  have  seen  the  Count  drink  an  entire 
bottle  of  patent  medicine  before  breakfast  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  get  a  "kick"  from  it. 

It  is  remarkable  how  far  some  men  will  go  in  their  desire 
for  a  stimulant.  I  know  of  a  recent  instance  where  a 
human  wreck  procured  a  bottle  of  camphorated  oil  from 
the  doctor,  ostensibly  to  rub  on  his  chest  and  throat  for 
a  cold,  and  promptly  drank  it.  I  was  present  in  the  hos- 
pital when  he  was  pumped  out,  and  it  required  heroic 
treatment  to  save  his  life.  At  first  the  doctor  thought 
he  had  taken  the  stuff  with  suicidal  intent,  but  on  re- 
covering consciousness  the  victim  admitted  that  he  had 
done  so  to  get  a  "kick."  The  doctor  was  tempted  to 
oblige  him  with  another  kind  of  kick. 

About  an  hour  after  lock-up  I  was  startled  by  a  blast 
of  music.  Smoky  noted  my  surprise  and  smiled  indul- 
gently. 

"Jus'  a  little  serenade  by  th'  band,"  he  informed  me. 
"Not  stric'ly  in  honor  of  y'r  arrival,  an'  yet  it  is — dey 
plays  ev'ry  night;  dat  is,  dey  practises  an'  den  plays  in 
th'  yard  on  Sundays.  Can  y'r  dance?"  he  asked,  ex- 
pectantly. 

"No,"  I  replied,  regretting  to  disappoint  him. 

"Dat's  too  bad,"  he  complained.  "We  has  a  great  time 
dancin'  Sundays  under  th'  shed.  Of  course,  dey  ain't  no 


Donald  Lowrie  45 

dolls  present,  but  we  pairs  off  an'  has  some  fun.  Y'r'll 
have  t'  learn  t'  dance,  Bill." 

It  was  right  here  that  I  was  christened  "Bill,"  a  nick- 
name that  stuck  to  me  all  during  my  imprisonment. 

I  listened  to  the  strains  of  the  "Olympia  Hippodrome," 
and  then  to  a  selection  from  "Lucretia  Borgia,"  before 
making  any  comment. 

"Pretty  good  band,"  I  offered,  tentatively. 

Smoky's  face  lighted  up.  He  was  glad  that  I  had 
praised  the  effort.  There  is  quite  a  little  pride  among 
the  prisoners  regarding  the  band  and  other  purely  inter- 
nal accomplishments. 

"Well,  I've  seen  it  a  lot  better,"  Smoky  apologized. 
"Fifteen  years  ago,  when  'Cornet  George'  had  it,  it  was 
a  cracker j  ack.  Still,  it  ain't  so  bad  now.  Th'  only  trou- 
ble is  dey  plays  too  much  of  dat  high-toned  dope.  I  like 
rags  an'  waltzes." 

I  regarded  him  in  undisguised  astonishment.  How  long 
had  he  been  in  prison?  He  spoke  of  "fifteen  years  ago" 
as  though  it  were  yesterday.  I  wanted  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion, but  refrained.  Something  told  me  he  would  impart 
more  about  himself  without  being  questioned  than  would 
be  the  case  otherwise.  His  nonchalance  was  remarkable. 

I  seated  myself  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk  and  gazed  at 
him  incredulously. 

"Can  you  play  chess?"  suddenly  asked  the  Count. 

"I  play  at  it,"  I  replied.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  play  you  a  game,"  he  said. 

"Sure,"  I  invited.    "Come  on." 

He  arose  with  alacrity — also  with  a  medicine  bottle — 
and  got  the  chessboard  and  men  from  under  the  bunk. 
Drawing  up  the  stool,  he  placed  the  board  upon  it  and  set 
up  the  pieces.  He  then  placed  two  folded  blankets  on 
the  floor  to  serve  as  seats. 

During  these  preparations  I  studied  his  face  and  bear- 


46  My  Life  in  Prison 

ing.  His  lips  were  thick  and  greasy-looking,  and  every 
movement  was  eloquent  of  patronage,  as  though  it  were 
a  great  condescension  for  him  to  play  me.  After  the  first 
five  or  six  moves,  however,  he  looked  at  me  questioningly. 

"Why,  you've  played  this  game  before,"  he  objected. 
"I  thought  you  didn't  know  much  about  it?" 

"I  don't,"  I  replied.  "This  is  my  first  game  in  several 
years." 

"Bet  him  a  sack  he  can't  beat  y'r,  Count,"  urged 
Smoky,  standing  behind  my  opponent  and  winking  at  me. 
"Y'r  never  been  beat  in  th'  cell  yet,  even  if  dey  does  skin 
y'r  in  th'  yard  right  along.  Bet  him  y'r  win  th'  game." 

"Bet  you  a  sack  I  beat  you!"  ejaculated  the  Count, 
succumbing  to  Smoky's  taunting  suggestion,  and  challeng- 
ing me  with  his  eyes,  as  well  as  with  the  inflection  of  his 
voice. 

"A  sack?"  I  asked.     "What's  that?" 

"Why,  a  sack  o'  weeds — terbaccer,"  said  Smoky.  "Dat's 
th'  coin  o'  th'  realm  here,  jus'  th'  same's  money  outside. 
Y'r  got  a  sack  with  y'r  things  t'day,  didn't  y'r?" 

I  remembered  I  had  been  given  a  sack  of  tobacco  with 
my  extra  clothing,  and  promptly  wagered  it  on  the  re- 
sult of  the  game. 

Smoky  became  deeply  interested,  and  the  Count  put 
forth  his  best  efforts.  Twice  I  thought  I  had  him  mated, 
but  he  wiggled  out  of  it,  and  then,  in  a  moment  of  aberra- 
tion— I  was  thinking  about  the  vileness  of  the  air — I 
blundered,  and  the  game  went  to  the  jubilant  Count. 

Smoky  had  great  difficulty  concealing  his  disappoint- 
ment, but  predicted  that  I  would  win  the  next  game. 

"Don't  get  puffed  up,  Franco-Germany,"  he  said.  "Bill 
ain't  got  settled  yet.  He's  still  thinkin'  about  some  rag 
'r  something  outside.  Wait  till  he's  here  a  month  an'  y'r 
won't  have  a  look-in." 

During  the  chess  game  I  noticed  that  the  boy  had  a  bad 


Donald  Lowrle  47 

cough,  and  wondered  how  long  he  was  serving.  After  we 
had  put  away  the  chess  I  asked  him  what  was  the  matter. 

"Oh,  I  cough  all  the  time,"  he  answered  disconsolately. 
"I  guess  I've  got  the  con.  My  brother  died  with  it,  an' 
my  mother  is — " 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  lay  staring  at  me  half  re- 
sentfully, as  if  I  had  wormed  something  out  of  him  that 
he  preferred  not  to  divulge.  I  did  not  ask  him  to  go  on, 
though  I  was  interested  and  felt  sorry  for  him — how 
could  I  help  it?  Smoky  relieved  us  by  calling  to  the 
next  cell. 

"We  got  a  new  boarder,  fellers !"  he  shouted. 

"Have  y'r  tried  him  yet?"  came  back  a  voice  faintly, 
as  though  from  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

"No,  he  ain't  broke  no  rules  yet,"  replied  Smoky.  "He 
seems  t'  be  a  pretty  good  sort  o'  plug.  He's  doin'  fifteen 
f'r  prowlin'." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  'trying  me'?"    I  asked. 

"Oh,  dat's  Fatty  Smith,"  laughed  Smoky.  "Dey  tries 
ev'ry  new  fish  dey  gets  in  dere — tries  him  th'  first  night 
an'  sentences  him  t'  carry  th'  bucket  f'r  a  month.  Fatty's 
a  good  feller,  only  he  likes  t'  have  fun." 

"Carry  the  bucket?'    I  asked.     "What's  that?" 

Smoky  winked  at  the  Italian  before  replying. 

"Oh,  we  takes  turns  carryin'  th'  bucket.  We  each  takes 
a  week.  When  dey  unlocks  in  th'  morning'  one  of  us  has 
t'  empty  th'  bucket,  an'  one  man  is  on  th'  broom.  I  bet 
him  my  turn  on  th'  bucket  f'r  a  month  on  th'  lasht  prize 
fight,  an'  he  lost." 

Developments  brought  out  the  fact  that  it  was  a  com- 
mon practice  for  the  inmates  of  a  cell  to  bet  off  their  turn 
at  the  cell  work,  and  Smoky  had  a  faculty  for  winning  his 
bets. 

"How  you  spell-a  bucket?"  asked  a  voice  from  the  mid- 
dle bunk.  It  was  the  Italian.  He  had  a  piece  of  broken 


48  My  Life  in  Prison 

slate  and  a  stump  of  pencil  and  was  busy  trying  to  learn 
to  write  English.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken. 

"B-u-c-k-i-t,"  Smoky  imparted. 

The  Italian  moistened  the  pencil  stump  with  his  lips 
and  laboriously  drew  the  letters. 

"How  is'a  dat?"  he  asked,  proudly  handing  me  the 
slate. 

I  regarded  the  letters  carefully,  not  knowing  whether 
to  correct  the  spelling  or  not.  I  decided  not  to.  It  would 
put  Smoky  "in  bad." 

"That's  fine,"  I  commented.  "How  long  have  you  been 
learning  to  write?" 

"Two  year,"  he  replied,  much  pleased  at  my  praise. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  got  up  and  impressed 
me  into  service  as  instructor.  At  first  I  did  not  like  it. 
I  wanted  to  learn  more  about  the  boy,  but  Spaghetti,  as 
Smoky  called  him,  was  so  enthused  that  I  soon  became 
absorbed  in  showing  him  how  to  figure.  In  the  midst  of 
the  lesson  the  bugle  sounded  taps,  and  Smoky  extinguished 
the  light,  leaving  us  in  darkness. 

"Dat's  th'  rule,"  he  apologized  in  a  low  voice.  "If  dey 
ketches  y'r  light  burnin'  after  taps  y'r  lose  th'  lamp,  an* 
dat's  hell.  Y'r  not  supposed  t'  talk,  neither,  but  we  got 
so  we  kin  tell  when  th'  night  watch  is  comin'  an'  quit." 

We  undressed  in  the  dark,  conversing  in  low  tones,  and 
I  then  climbed  to  the  top  bunk. 

"What  time  do  we  get  up?"  I  asked. 

"Six  o'clock;  but  sh-sh-sh-h!" 

The  next  instant  the  cell  was  flooded  with  light  and  I 
heard  some  one  fumbling  at  the  lock.  I  was  startled  and 
raised  up  to  look,  bumping  my  head  against  the  ceiling. 
I  saw  a  bull's-eye  at  the  wicket.  It  remained  a  second 
and  was  then  withdrawn,  and  I  heard  a  padded  step,  and 
then  the  noise  of  the  pull  at  the  lock  of  the  next  cell. 

"Dat's  th'  night  bull,"  whispered  Smoky.     "He  allus 


Donald  Lowrie  49 

comes  by  here  right  after  9  o'clock,  an'  it  won't  do  f'r 
him  t'  ketch  y'r  talkin'  or  with  th'  light  burnin'." 

I  wanted  to  ask  questions,  but  heard  Smoky  turn  over 
in  his  bunk  and  settle  himself  to  sleep.  Though  I  had  not 
had  a  good  night's  sleep  for  many  weeks,  I  lay  wide 
awake,  thinking  and  wondering.  The  Italian  was  soon 
snoring — in  English.  I  knew  it  was  he  by  the  location, 
and  the  boy  coughed  and  sighed  continually. 

I  wanted  to  talk  with  the  boy,  but  it  was  against  the 
rules,  and  there  was  no  telling  what  instant  the  bull's-eye 
would  flash  through  the  wicket. 

The  night  watch  wears  "sneaks,"  and  it  is  only  after 
long  imprisonment  that  you  learn  to  catch  the  sound  of 
his  approach.  Suddenly  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a 
call— 

"Ten  o'clock  an'  all-1-l's  well!"  There  was  an  interval 
and  then  it  was  repeated  in  the  distance.  Another  inter- 
val and  I  heard  it  again,  still  fainter.  Then  it  sounded 
close  by,  having  gone  from  post  to  post  around  the  cell 
buildings — and  then  it  was  caught  up  and  repeated  by 
the  sentries  stationed  in  the  lower  yard,  growing  fainter 
and  fainter  with  each  repetition. 

The  sergeant  of  the  night  watch  listens  for  these  calls 
and  counts  them.  If  he  does  not  hear  eight  he  inves- 
tigates. 

New  guards  are  put  on  night  duty  for  the  first  three  or 
four  months,  and  many  of  them  go  to  sleep.  There  is  an 
ironclad  rule  about  this.  Sleeping  on  post  means  dis- 
charge, without  recourse.  Frequently  the  culprit  denies 
that  he  has  been  asleep,  and  it  becomes  a  question  of  tak- 
ing his  word  or  that  of  the  sergeant.  This  has  led  to  an 
interesting  procedure.  When  the  sergeant  fails  to  hear 
the  requisite  number  of  calls  he  goes  from  post  to  post 
until  he  locates  the  sleeping  man,  quietly  appropriates  his 


50  My  Life  in  Prison 

shotgun  and  other  accoutrements  and  delivers  them  over 
to  the  gateman  before  waking  the  delinquent. 

"Where  is  your  gun?"  asks  the  sergeant  as  he  awakens 
the  sleeper. 

Of  course,  the  man  does  not  know. 

"You'll  find  it  between  the  gates,"  the  sergeant  informs 
him,  "and  you  needn't  come  back." 

Another  guard  is  aroused  to  take  the  vacant  place,  and 
the  watch  goes  on. 

In  years  long  past  attempts  to  escape  at  night  were 
not  infrequent,  and  I  know  of  one  instance  where  a  con- 
templated escape  was  reported  by  a  stool-pigeon,  and  the 
Captain  of  the  Guard — unknown  to  the  night  watch — 
posted  a  day  man  with  a  loaded  rifle  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows in  the  guards'  quarters  commanding  the  suspected 
cell.  When  the  two  men  emerged  from  the  cell  they  were 
shot  down  without  warning,  like  dogs.  It  was  cold-blooded 
murder,  pure  and  simple,  but  the  newspapers  didn't  get  it 
that  way.  The  murderers  have  long  since  severed  their 
connection  with  the  prison. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1£  o'clock,  1  o'clock  passed,  and  I  lis- 
tened to  the  calls.  I  did  not  hear  2  o'clock,  but  was 
awake  at  3  and  heard  all  the  other  calls  until  morning. 

In  his  sleep  the  boy  kept  mumbling  something  about 
work — he  was  evidently  hard  at  his  daily  task — and 
coughed  a  good  deal. 

When  day  began  to  break  I  got  up  and  stood  with  my 
nose  at  the  wicket,  breathing  in  the  fresh  air.  The  cell 
was  foul  and  stifling. 

Only  by  spending  a  night  in  one  of  the  "tanks"  at  San 
Quentin  can  one  appreciate  what  it  means.  Think  of 
spending  years  of  nights  under  such  conditions,  and  then 
understand  why  many  men  come  out  of  prison  broken 
and  embittered.  At  times  when  something  goes  wrong 
with  the  cooking,  or  when  the  water  becomes  tainted  in 


Donald  Lowrie  51 

late  summer,  the  nights  are  nightmares — sickening  to 
think  of. 

At  present  San  Quentin  prison  is  fearfully  over- 
crowded. Cells  that  were  originally  built  for  two  inmates 
now  shelter  four  or  five.  There  are  less  than  700  cells  for 
nearly  2,000  prisoners,  and  a  number  of  these  cells,  known 
as  "singles,"  are  so  small  that  it  is  impossible  to  place 
more  than  one  man  in  each,  which  crowds  four  or  five 
into  larger  cells.  This  condition  has  necessitated  the  con- 
version of  two  large  rooms  in  the  old  furniture  factory 
into  dormitories,  where  300  men  sleep. 

Talking  with  a  man  prominent  in  public  affairs  recently 
and  telling  him  of  these  things,  he  said: 

"No  judge  should  be  qualified  to  sentence  men  to  prison 
until  he  has  spent  at  least  one  night  in  one  of  these  cells." 

This  may  be  an  extreme  view,  but  so  long  as  human 
beings  are  treated  like  brutes  extreme  views  are  tenable. 
You  cannot  make  a  saint  out  of  a  man  by  confining  him 
in  a  church,  but  you  can  make  a  devil  out  of  him  by  treat- 
ing him  like  hell. 

I  was  standing  at  the  wicket  gulping  in  the  fresh  air 
when  the  bell  began  ringing  for  unlock.  In  an  instant 
all  was  changed.  Where  a  moment  before  the  softness 
of  summer  dawn  had  made  the  grim  buildings  and  massive 
walls  sepulchral,  imparting  a  sense  of  living  death,  there 
now  reigned  a  pandemonium  of  clanking  keys,  creaking 
levers,  shouting  warders  and  scurrying  trusties,  emphasiz- 
ing by  contrast  the  hideous  reality  of  the  place. 

My  cellmates  came  tumbling  out  of  their  bunks  and 
began  dressing  hurriedly.  There  was  only  one  wash  basin 
and  a  small  bucket  of  water.  I  waited  until  the  others 
had  washed  and  then  poured  what  water  there  was  left 
into  the  basin.  In  doing  so  I  noted  that  the  bottom  of  the 
water  bucket  was  slimy  with  sediment,  yet  we  had  been 
drinking  from  it  the  night  before. 


52  My  Life  in  Prison 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  "cell-tenders"  to  clean  and  fill  the 
water  buckets  in  the  cells  on  their  respective  tiers,  but 
most  of  them  merely  add  fresh  water  to  that  which  may  be 
left.  The  cell  inmates  are  not  allowed  access  to  the  water 
faucets  at  the  ends  of  the  tiers,  and  cannot  get  fresh 
water  for  themselves. 

I  soon  learned  to  rinse  out  our  water  bucket  each  morn- 
ing with  the  residue.  But  the  bucket  has  a  capacity  of 
only  about  a  gallon,  and  sometimes,  especially  on  warm 
nights,  we  would  drink  nearly  all  of  it  and  have  insufficient 
for  washing  in  the  morning,  and,  of  course,  none  for  clean- 
ing purposes. 

"Why,  you  haven't  got  a  towel,  and  no  soap,"  com- 
mented the  Count  as  I  prepared  to  wash.  "Here,  use  my 
soap,  and  here's  an  extra  towel." 

Prisoners  are  not  furnished  towels.  Those  without 
money  either  get  along  without  a  towel  or  else  break  the 
prison  rules  by  trading  their  tobacco  for  one.  In  many 
cases  men  use  their  shirts  or  blankets  as  towels  until  such 
time  as  they  are  able  to  get  a  flour  sack  or  piece  of  rag. 
Those  having  money  to  their  credit  at  the  office  may  pur- 
chase towels  and  other  necessaries  on  the  first  of  each 
month,  but  a  man  entering  the  prison  early  in  the  month, 
even  though  he  have  money,  must  wait  three  or  four  weeks 
before  he  can  make  a  purchase,  meanwhile  using  some 
other  man's  towel  or  trading,  on  credit,  for  one.  The 
"Jimmy  Hope"  soap  furnished  is  such  as  is  ordinarily 
used  for  scrubbing  floors  and  other  coarse  cleaning. 

There  is  a  marked  fellowship  among  the  prisoners.  Gen- 
erally the  new  arrival  sees  a  few  familiar  faces — men  who 
have  been  in  j  ail  with  him  and  have  been  sent  "across  the 
bubble"  while  he  has  been  awaiting  trial  or  dickering  with 
the  District  Attorney  for  a  "plea." 

The  day  following  my  arrival  half  a  dozen  men,  mostly 
strangers,  offered  me  towels,  toothbrushes,  soap  and  other 


Donald  Lowrie  53 

things.  But  the  Count  had  a  remittance  from  the  "old 
country"  and  was  well  supplied  with  extra  things.  He 
seemed  to  derive  a  lot  of  satisfaction  in  being  able  to  sup- 
ply me  and  would  not  listen  to  my  protestations  that  I 
could  wait. 

"Hurry  up,"  urged  Smoky  as  I  began  to  wash.  "Th* 
bell  only  rings  a  minute,  same's  at  lock-up.  Dey'll  be 
openin'  up  pretty  pronto." 

Hastily  finishing  my  ablutions  in  the  scant  supply  of 
water,  I  looked  for  a  place  to  empty  the  basin.  Smoky 
pointed  to  the  bucket.  It  had  a  yellow  foam  on  top,  re- 
sultant from  the  chloride  of  lime  that  had  been  in  the 
bottom  the  night  before.  This  vile  stuff,  while  serving  as 
a  disinfectant,  filled  the  cell  with  a  pungent  odor,  rasping 
the  throat  and  smarting  the  eyes. 

"It's  full,"  I  objected. 

"No,  dat's  foam,"  said  Smoky,  and,  grabbing  the  basin 
from  me,  he  carefully  poured  the  contents  into  the  bucket. 

This  basin  served  for  five  men.  We  used  it  one  after 
the  other.  Still,  it  might  have  been  worse — the  "kid" 
didn't  have  syphilis — only  consumption. 

A  moment  later,  when  the  signal  was  given  to  unlock 
the  doors,  a  trusty  came  running  along  the  tier,  releasing 
the  final  catch  of  each  door  as  he  passed,  and  the  men 
poured  out. 

I  then  learned  what  "carrying  the  bucket"  meant.  The 
Count  grabbed  ours,  full  to  the  brim,  and  dodged  along 
the  tier,  holding  the  receptacle  in  front  of  him.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  at  the  end  of  the  building  he  fell 
into  line  with  hundreds  of  other  men,  all  carrying  buckets, 
and  moved  slowly  to  the  sewer  opening  at  the  south  end  of 
the  yard. 

This  opening  is  within  fifteen  feet  of  the  south  cell 
building,  and  the  men  confined  in  the  cells  close  by  and 


54  My  Life  In  Prison 

above  it  breathe  the  foul  fumes  all  night,  additional  to 
the  foulness  existent  in  the  cells  themselves. 

Going  to  the  wicket  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  the  in- 
mate of  one  of  these  cells  is  assailed  with  the  sewer  odor. 
On  hot  summer  nights  it  is  awful.  I  celled  there  once  for 
a  few  days,  but  moved  as  soon  as  I  could. 

After  emptying  the  bucket  the  Count  rinsed  it  in  cold 
salt  water  and  then  halted  a  moment  while  a  crippled 
prisoner  flipped  in  the  allotted  portion  of  chloride  of  lime 
with  a  rusty  ladle.  Then  the  Count  came  running  back 
to  our  building  and  up  the  stairs  to  our  cell — as  rapidly 
as  the  rules  permitted — in  order  to  be  in  time  for  break- 
fast line. 

Everything  is  done  with  a  rush  at  the  penitentiary — 
eating,  bathing,  shaving,  even  the  dressing  of  the  prisoner 
about  to  be  discharged.  I  often  wondered  why.  It  seemed 
so  absurd. 

Even  when  a  human  being  is  hanged  it  is  done  with 
scientific  swiftness,  but  I  understand  that — more  about  it 
anon. 

Under  Smoky's  directions  I  made  up  my  bed,  and  then 
we  proceeded  to  the  yard,  leaving  the  Italian  engaged  in 
sweeping  and  "tidying"  the  cell.  The  boy  had  dodged  out 
as  soon  as  the  door  opened. 

"Smoky,"  I  inquired,  as  we  joined  the  herd  in  the  yard 
and  waited  for  the  whistle  to  line  up,  "how  long  is  the 
'kid'  doing  and  what  for?" 

"Fifty  years,"  answered  Smoky,  "and  a  rotten  shame. 
Some  Fresno  judge  soaked  him — handed  him  th'  fifty — as 
an  example.  An  example,  mind  you !  Why,  it  makes  me 
jus'  hanker  t'  git  outside  an'  rob  an'  kill  f'r  th'  rest  of 
my  life.  Here  I  am  a  five-time  loser,  doin'  twenty  f'r  stick- 
up,  an'  dat  poor  kid  gets  fifty  th'  first  rattle  outer  th' 
box.  An'  it  was  only  a  plain  case  of  rollin'  a  drunk.  He 
an'  his  pardner  follered  him  t'  a  lonely  place  an'  took  three 


Donald  Lowrie  55 

measly  dollars  off  him.  Fifty  years  and  Rockefeller  an* 
dem  other  thieves,  ridin'  in  automobiles  an'  livin'  in  glass 
houses  on  de  money  wot  dey  robbed  outer  little  kids'  stom- 
achs. Example!  I'd  do  ten  years  on  top  o'  dis  twenty 
t'  git  at  pipe  dream  outer  dese  judges,  solid  ivory 
noodles." 

"But  about  his  mother?"  I  asked.  "He  started  to  say 
something  about  her  last  night  and  stopped." 

"Oh,  dat's  nothin';  jus'  a  mere  trifle.  She's  only  bug- 
house— laced  up  in  a  strait  jacket  in  a  madhouse  on  ac- 
count o'  th'  kid's  sentence.  Dat's  part  o'  th'  'example' 
dat  fat  judge  got  off  his  chest  when  he  handed  out  th' 
fifty.  He  sent  th'  kid's  partner,  another  kid,  to  Folsom 
f'r  fifty,  too." 
li  "How  long  has  he  been  here?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  he's  only  free  years  in — he  ain't  got  a  chance. 
He's  got  th'  T.  B.  an'  can't  last  more'n  a  year,  nohow. 
His  mother  lives  in  Chicago,  an'  she  tried  t'  spring  him 
when  she  first  found  out,  an'  when  dey  turned  her  down 
she  jus'  give  way  and  went  nuts.  But  dere's  th'  whistle." 

We  fell  into  line  and  crawled  along  toward  the  stair- 
way leading  to  the  dining  hall. 
f     "Where  do  I  go  after  breakfast?"  I  asked. 

"Come  back  t'  dis  yard  an'  wait  till  dey  sends  f'r  y'r 
from  th'  office.  Dat'll  be  in  an  hour  or  so,  an'  y'r'll  be 
assigned  t'  th'  mill." 

Breakfast  consisted  of  oatmeal,  with  bitter  molasses, 
bread  and  "coffee."  According  to  rule  it  was  eaten  in 
silence. 

An  incident  of  that  meal  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory. 
At  the  tap  of  the  guard's  cane  we  sat  down  at  our  table — 
a  low  bench  runs  along  either  side  of  each  table — and  a 
man  opposite  us — a  middle-aged  man  wearing  spectacles, 
and  with  thin,  straggly  hair — reached  for  the  service  pan 


56  My  Life  in  Prison 

of  oatmeal  with  one  hand,  while  he  bowed  his  head  on 
the  other. 

"Dat's  'Rebel  George,'  "  Smoky  informed  me  in  a  whis- 
per, without  moving  his  lips.  "He  used  t'  be  th'  best 
confidence  man  in  th'  business,  but  he's  got  th'  religious 
bug  now — Lgot  it  so  bad  he  won't  even  eat  his  slop  widout 
sayin'  grace.  But  y'r  notice  he  ain't  got  much  fait'  in  der 
Lord  in  amongst  dis  bunch  o'  sharks,  th'  way  he's  hangin* 
on  t'  der  mush  wid  dat  big  mitt!" 

After  "Rebel  George"  finished  his  prayer  he  proceeded 
to  help  himself  to  a  generous  share  of  oatmeal  before  any 
other  man  got  a  helping.  I  saw  him  do  this  same  thing 
many  times  afterward,  and  it  made  me  doubt  his  sincerity 
as  to  the  "religious  bug."  Still,  when  his  time  expired 
he  turned  evangelist,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  lived  an  un- 
selfish life  trying  to  help  others. 


CHAPTER  VI 

After  breakfast  I  returned  to  the  upper  yard.  Save 
a  few  cripples,  and  two  or  three  men  who  had  been  ex- 
cused from  work  by  the  doctor,  I  found  the  place  deserted. 
Its  bareness  and  silence  were  in  marked  contrast  to  the 
crowd  and  confusion  of  a  few  minutes  before.  I  no  sooner 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairway  than  I  was  accosted 
by  a  one-armed  man  who  proved  to  be  the  yard-tender. 

"You'll  have  to  help  clean  up,"  he  informed  me.  "All 
new  guys  has  to  do  that  the  first  morning.  Get  one  of 
them  brooms  over  there,"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  stack 
of  brooms  standing  against  one  of  the  guard  posts. 

I  got  a  broom  and  joined  the  other  men.  We  started 
in  a  line  and  proceeded  down  the'yard,  sweeping  the  refuse 
before  us.  There  were  hunchbacks,  blind  men,  men  minus 
an  arm  or  leg,  and  one  poor  creature  with  St.  Vitus'  dance 
in  that  line.  The  man  beside  me  was  very  talkative  and 
seemed  to  derive  a  lot  of  satisfaction  in  posting  me — a 
"green  one." 

"That's  'kid  alley,' "  he  announced  as  we  arrived  oppo- 
site the  space  between  the  south  cell  building  and  its  neigh- 
bor. "All  single  cells.  'Battleship  Mag,'  'Clara  Bell'  and 
all  the  notorious  characters  cell  there." 

We  swept  along  to  the  next  opening. 

"  'China  alley,'  "  said  my  guide,  "where  the  chinks  live. 
Just  on  the  ground  row,  same  as  in  'kid  alley.' 

"And  this  is  'crazy  alley,'  where  they  keep  the  bug- 

57 


58  My  Life  in  Prison 

house  guys.  There's  about  thirty  or  forty  of  'em,"  he 
imparted  as  we  came  to  the  third  opening  between  the 
buildings.  "Take  a  peep  at  that  chink." 

Looking  through  the  slats  of  the  high  stockade  extend- 
ing across  the  end  of  the  alley  from  one  building  to  the 
other,  I  saw  an  insane  Chinaman,  naked,  save  for  striped 
trousers  rolled  to  his  knees,  fighting  a  desperate  sword 
cluel  with  an  imaginary  foe.  His  eyes  were  serpentlike 
and  concentrated  in  deadly  hate  as  he  danced  back  and 
forth,  sparring  for  an  opening.  Suddenly  he  uttered  a 
weird  cry  of  triumph  and  lunged  forward.  He  stood  tense- 
ly for  a  moment,  as  though  over  a  prostrate  body,  and 
then  went  through  the  motions  of  withdrawing  the  weapon. 
Then  his  expression  changed  to  one  of  fear,  and  he  darted 
into  a  cell. 

"He  does  that  stunt  every  mornin'  regular,  and  then 
goes  into  his  cell  and  stays  there  all  day  without  a  mur- 
mur," said  my  informant.  "But  do  you  see  that  skinny, 
plug  with  the  sailor  cut  to  his  rig,  the  one  hikin'  in  the 
strip  of  sunlight?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  that's  'Sailor  Charlie.'  He's  been  Here  since  1874.' 
He's  the  oldest  prisoner  in  the  dump,  and  he's  in  the  alley 
twenty  years." 

To  say  that  I  was  appalled  is  putting  it  weakly.  He 
had  been  committed  there  before  I  was  born.  He  had 
been  there  all  during  my  childhood,  during  all  the  time 
I  had  been  attending  schools,  while  I  had  been  skating  and 
coasting  in  winter  and  swimming  in  summer.  He  had  been 
there  during  all  the  years  that  had  passed  since.  And 
he  was  insane,  and  would  never  get  out. 

"What  did  he  do?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  got  into  a  drunken  fight  in  a  sailor  Koardin'  house 
and  killed  a  guy  with  a  whisky  bottle.  It  was  nothing 
more  than  manslaughter,  but  he  had  no  money  or  friends. 


Donald  Lowrie  59 

He  was  in  the  alley  when  I  drove  up  seventeen  years  ago, 
and  he's  been  there  ever  since.  He  never  speaks  to  any- 
one— nobody  has  ever  heard  his  voice.  All  he  does  is  num- 
ble  to  himself  once  in  a  while." 

We  passed  the  alley  and  were  nearing  the  end  of  the 
yard.  I  had  forgotten  where  I  was  and  what  I  was  doing 
— it  seemed  such  an  awful  thing  that  a  human  being 
should  have  been  in  prison  that  long. 

At  the  moment  I  could  think  of  no  crime  deserving  such 
a  fate.  The  words  "imprisonment  for  life"  when  pro- 
nounced in  court  sound  terrible  enough,  though  oftentimes 
such  a  sentence  appears  inadequate  for  particular  cases, 
but  to  come  into  contact  with  a  man  who  had  actually 
been  in  prison  thirty  years  filled  me  with  horror.  There 
is  a  vast  difference  between  words  and  facts. 

And  "Sailor  Charlie"  is  still  in  confinement,  though  not 
at  the  penitentiary.  He  is  now  at  one  of  the  State  insane 
asylums.  At  present  a  hospital  for  the  criminal  insane  is 
being  erected  at  Folsom.  When  it  is  finished  San  Quen- 
tin's  "crazy  alley"  will  become  a  hideous  remembrance — 
a  step  upon  human  souls  in  our  march  toward  better 
things. 

As  we  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  yard  there  came  a 
,  tragic  interruption.  One  of  the  inmates  of  the  alley  had 
crawled  through  the  small  opening  where  the  sewer  runs 
under  the  stockade  and  had  escaped  into  the  main  yard. 
He  passed  us  running  like  mad,  bareheaded,  a  scrawny, 
white-faced  human  wreck,  with  a  guard  in  close  pursuit. 

As  he  reached  the  gate  opening  into  the  outer  yard 
and  the  flower  garden  the  guard  overtook  him. 

I  was  totally  unprepared  for  what  occurred,  and  shall 

remember  it,  and  the  guard,  so  long  as  I  live. 

I     The  guard  was  a  big,  strong,    vigorous    man,    and  I 

^thought  he  was  merely  going  to  catch  the  puny  fugitive 

[and  take  him  back  to  the  alley.  Instead  he  raised  his  cane, 


60  My  Life  in  Prison 

loaded  with  lead  at  the  end,  and  brought  it  down  upon  the 
unprotected  skull  before  him. 

The  runaway  took  a  few  steps  forward,  carried  by  his 
momentum,  and  then  sprawled  in  a  heap,  striking  the  as- 
phaltum  squarely  upon  his  face  and  sliding  some  distance 
before  his  body  stopped.  His  legs  twitched  convulsively, 
and  he  made  a  feeble  effort  to  rise,  but  sank  back,  the 
blood  streaming  from  his  nostrils. 

With  the  assistance  of  a  prisoner  the  guard  lifted  the 
inert  form  and  they  carried  it  back  to  the  alley. 

As  they  passed  I  came  within  an  ace  of  attacking  the 
guard.  I  was  wild  with  fury.  Everything  appeared  red, 
but  the  man  beside  me  laughed,  and  that  turned  my  rage 
upon  him.  He  backed  away  from  me  in  affright,  and  I 
gradually  regained  my  composure. 

I  never  learned  what  became  of  the  man  who  was  struck. 
I  never  saw  him  again,  but  the  guard  is  still  on  the  pay- 
roll, only  he  is  no  longer  a  guard;  he  is  an  officer. 

I  never  think  of  him  without  a  shudder,  and  I  saw  him 
commit  several  atrocities  of  similar  character  during  the 
years  that  followed. 

*  I  shall  recount  them  later. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  side  wall  at  the  end  of  the  yard, 
still  fuming  at  what  I  had  witnessed,  when  the  Chinaman 
came  from  the  office  and  beckoned  me  to  follow  him.  He 
took  me  to  the  captain  of  the  yard. 

*  "How  are  y'r  eyes  ?"  asked  that  officer.    "Y'r  ain't  hurt 
'em  lookin'  for  work,  have  y'r?" 

"They  seem  to  be  all  right,"  I  replied. 
•'     "And  y'r  haven't  got  any  bum  fingers,  or  a  broken  arm, 
or  a  lame  back,  or  anything  like  that,  have  y'r?    Let's 
see  y'r  hands." 

I  extended  my  arms  and  he  examined  my  fingers  crit- 


Donald  Lowrie  61 

"Huh,  they're  all  right,"  he  commented.  "How  old  are 
y'r?" 

"Twenty-six,"  I  replied. 

He  turned  to  the  clerk  beside  him. 

"Jute  mill,"  he  ordered,  laconically,  and  walked  into  his 
office. 

"Sit  down  on  that  bench,"  ordered  the  clerk ;  "the  run- 
ner will  take  you  to  the  mill  in  a  few  minutes." 

I  seated  myself  on  the  mourners'  bench — so  called  be- 
cause men  charged  with  infractions  of  the  prison  rules 
sit  there  while  awaiting  a  hearing  before  the  captain — 
my  thoughts  anything  but  pleasant.  A  pet  parrot  served 
to  divert  them.  It  flew  from  the  bush  where  it  had  been 
perched  and  alighted  on  the  railing  before  me,  cocked  its 
head  on  one  side  and  regarded  me  speculatively. 

"What  did  you  bring?"  it  suddenly  asked. 

It  was  the  same  old  stereotyped  question,  but  coming 
so  unexpectedly  from  such  a  source  it  certainly  amused 
me.  It  also  made  me  feel  foolish.  I  didn't  know  whether 
to  reply  or  not. 

The  parrot  strutted  up  and  down  on  the  railing,  keep- 
ing its  head  turned,  so  that  it  never  lost  sight  of  me,  and 
crooning  to  itself  contentedly.  Finally  it  stopped  and  re- 
peated its  question. 

I  was  on  the  verge  of  imparting  the  desired  informa- 
tion when  it  spread  its  wings. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  it  said,  and  flew  away. 

I  was  still  laughing  when  the  runner  appeared  and  took 
me  in  charge. 

"We're  going  to  the  jute  mill,"  he  said.    "Come  on." 

The  runner  took  me  down  to  the  lower  yard  and  through 
the  big  double  gates  into  the  jute  mill.  Entering  the  door- 
way of  the  mill  the  din  was  deafening.  It  was  the  first  time 
in  my  life  that  I  had  been  inside  a  large  factory.  Hun- 
dreds of  men  were  at  work,  many  of  them  in  undershirts, 


62  My  Life  in  Prison 

and  the  air  was  heavy  with  dust  and  heat.  My  guide 
took  me  to  the  office  of  the  superintendent  and  left  me 
there.  Presently  the  superintendent  came  in. 

"What  do  you  work  at  outside?"  he  inquired,  after  look- 
ing me  over  with  a  critical  eye. 

"I'm  a  stenographer  and  bookkeeper,"  I  replied,  "and 
I've  also  been  a  travelling  salesman." 

"Well,  we  ain't  got  no  use  for  stenographers  here,"  he 
informed  me,  "and  as  for  travellin'  salesmen,  they  ain't 
got  no  chance  at  all." 

He  turned  abruptly  to  the  man  at  the  desk  and  spoke 
in  a  low  voice  before  telling  me  to  sit  down.  The  man 
at  the  desk  wrote  something  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  handed 
it  to  the  runner  attached  to  their  office.  This  man  went 
into  the  back  room  and  returned  with  a  pair  of  scissors, 
blunted  at  the  ends,  which  he  handed  to  me,  and  at  his 
bidding  I  arose  and  followed  him  from  the  office.  We 
traversed  several  long  aisles,  with  whirring  belts,  roaring 
machinery  and  tense-faced  men  all  about  us,  and  stopped 
at  the  far  end  of  the  mill — at  loom  No.  201.  The  runner 
spoke  to  the  man  at  this  loom — I  could  not  hear  what  he 
said  on  account  of  the  noise — and  then  departed. 

My  new  custodian  was  a  short,  thick-set  German,  not 
bad  looking,  and  I  judged  him  to  be  some  years  younger 
than  myself.  He  favored  me  with  a  prolonged  scrutiny 
and  then  went  on  with  his  work  as  though  I  were  non- 
existent. I  must  have  stood  there  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
watching  him  "pick  the  warp"  and  change  the  shuttles 
before  he  spoke  to  me. 

"What  cher  bring?"  he  finally  inquired,  coming  close 
and  shouting  into  my  ear. 

When  I  told  him  my  sentence  his  demeanor  instantly 
changed.  I  did  not  understand  why  at  the  moment,  but 
learned  later  that  a  prisoner's  respect  for  his  fellow  is 
in  direct  proportion  to  the  length  of  sentence.  Lifers  are 


Donald  Lowrie  63 

accorded  more  deference  than  fifty-year  men,  and  fifty- 
year  men  are  treated  with  more  respect  than  those  serv- 
ing twenty-five,  and  so  on  down  the  line  to  the  one-year 
bunch,  who  are  considered  unworthy  of  serious  notice.  A 
year  sentence  is  known  as  a  "sleep." 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  concerning  the  jute  mill 
at  San  Quentin.  It  has  been  painted  as  a  veritable  in- 
ferno. I  did  not  find  it  so. 

In  two  weeks  I  learned  to  weave  so  that  I  could  do 
my  task.  True,  the  work  is  irksome  and  the  air  is  charged 
with  fine  particles  of  dust,  fatal  to  the  weak-lunged,  but 
the  conditions  are  no  worse  than  those  prevailing  in  many 
of  the  textile  mills  of  New  England,  where  young  girls 
perform  the  same  work  that  is  required  of  able-bodied  men 
at  San  Quentin.  I  never  had  any  sympathy  or  patience 
with  malingerers  nor  with  those  who  .complained  about 
the  "terrible"  jute  mill.  I  worked  in  the  mill  eighteen 
months,  worked  on  a  loom — which  is  considered  the  least 
desirable  work  of  all — and  I  did  my  task  every  day.  Two 
summers  passed  before  I  was  assigned  to  another  depart- 
ment, and  I  never  missed  a  day.  I  know  the  conditions.  I 
am  not  writing  from  hearsay.  In  fact,  I  know  all  the 
conditions  about  which  I  am  writing,  and  I  am  telling  the 
exact  facts — anything  else  would  be  absurd  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

\'  My  object  in  writing  is  not  to  arouse  sentimental  con- 
cern for  those  who  have  been  caught  and  are  being  pun- 
ished for  violations  of  the  law,  but  to  endeavor  to  show 
the  futility  of  the  present  system  and  the  unnecessary 
degradation  to  which  the  delinquent  is  subjected;  also,  if 
possible,  to  point  out  possible  remedies.  State  institutions 
should  not  be  utilized  for  political  ends.  Politics  is  not 
government;  it  is  a  business — a  business  which  has  little 
or  no  regard  for  the  welfare  of  the  citizen,  individually 
or  collectively.  /^ 


84  My  Life  in  Prison 

The  criticism  I  have  to  make  of  the  jute  mill  at  San 
Quentin  is  its  inefficiency.  It  barely  maintains  itself.  A 
plant  of  the  same  magnitude  managed  on  an  economic  ba- 
sis would  yield  a  good  profit.  And  right  here  permit  me 
to  digress  for  the  purpose  of  emphasizing  this  anomaly. 
There  are  nearly  two  thousand  men  confined  at  San  Quen- 
tin, eighteen  hundred  of  whom  are  able-bodied,  capable  of 
discharging  a  good  day's  labor.  Eighteen  hundred  able- 
bodied  men  should  support  a  community  of  eight  or  ten 
thousand  persons  in  comfort  and  plenty.  Yet  these  eigh- 
teen hundred  able-bodied  convicts,  fed  on  the  coarsest 
food,  clothed  in  the  cheapest  manner,  and  housed  like  dogs, 
cost  the  State  of  California  an  average  of  $200,000  a 
year  to  keep  in  prison.  Not  only  this,  but  a  number  of 
them  were  supporting  families  and  relatives  before  they 
were  imprisoned.  Who  is  supporting  these  families  and 
relatives  now? 

And  aside  from  this  loss  in  dollars  and  cents  there  is 
a  terrible  moral  loss.  A  man  condemned  to  work  day 
after  day  at  something  in  which  he  has  no  interest,  with 
no  incentive  to  do  his  best,  and  with  no  remuneration,  be- 
comes mentally  indolent — he  gets  so  that  he  does  not  care. 
Whatever  he  may  learn  about  making  jute  bags  will  be  of 
no  value  to  him  in  the  outside  world.  He  realizes  that 
the  jute  mill  is  maintained  simply  that  he  may  be  com- 
pelled to  do  a  certain  amount  of  labor  each  day — labor 
that  becomes  a  "task"  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Thou- 
ands  of  men  have  passed  through  San  Quentin,  many  of 
them  spending  long  years  there.  Nothing  has  ever  been 
done  to  make  them  better  nor  to  fit  them  to  take  up  the 
battle  of  life  intelligently.  They  have  been  reduced  to  a 
dead  level  of  obedience  and  kept  there.  But  at  last  there 
is  to  be  a  change.  Thanks  to  the  untiring  efforts  of  the 
present  warden  and  the  generous  co-operation  of  the  labor 
leaders  the  Legislature  has  authorized  the  establishment 


Donald  Lowrie  65 

of  new  industries.  Hereafter  the  clothing,  shoes,  furniture 
and  other  utensils  used  at  all  the  State  institutions  are  to 
be  manufactured  at  San  Quentin.  This  will  not  only 
afford  interesting  and  instructive  work  for  the  prisoners, 
but  will  effect  a  big  saving  to  the  State.  It  is  planned  to 
place  the  prisoner  on  a  wage  basis,  charging  him  for  what 
he  now  receives  gratis,  and  thus  teaching  him  the  funda- 
mental lesson  of  self-support  and  frugality.  The  plan  is 
eminently  practical  and  can  be  carried  out  without  in  the 
least  particular  interfering  with  free  labor. 

But  while  I  had  no  trouble  mastering  a  loom  and  doing 
my  task,  there  are  other  men  not  so  fortunate.  The  looms 
are  obsolete  and  have  been  in  use  for  many  years.  Some 
of  them  are  "cranky"  and  it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  coax 
the  daily  task  from  them.  Men  of  nervous  temperament 
frequently  break  down  under  the  strain  of  trying  to  "make 
good." 

I  know  of  several  instances  of  insanity  directly  due  to 
prolonged  work  at  a  refractory  loom.  I  have  watched  a 
man  do  his  best  day  after  day,  his  face  drawn  to  a  tensity 
painful  to  behold,  only  to  meet  with  disaster  and  punish- 
ment in  the  end.  When  I  worked  in  the  mill  the  rule  was 
that  a  man  should  go  to  the  "hole"  on  bread  and  water 
from  Saturday  night  till  Monday  morning  if  he  failed  to 
have  his  task  completed  at  the  end  of  the  week.  And  then, 
after  spending  this  period  in  the  "hole,"  he  would  be 
brought  back  to  work  Monday  morning  and  expected  to 
get  out  his  task  for  that  day. 

I  recall  one  man  in  particular,  a  fair  Englishman,  who 
worked  at  a  loom  near  mine.  At  first,  after  I  had  learned 
to  do  my  own  task,  I  used  to  help  him,  but  soon  found  that 
it  was  useless — he  simply  couldn't  master  the  work.  If  he 
had  a  "break  down,"  due  to  defective  shuttles  or  poor 
warp,  it  would  require  from  two  to  three  hours  for  him  to 
get  started  again.  Quite  often  a  second  "break"  would 


66  My  Life  In  Prison 

occur,  due  to  his  not  having  made  the  mend  properly,  and 
I  have  seen  him  sink  down  behind  his  loom  and  cry.  Every 
Saturday  night  he  went  to  the  "hole,"  and  every  Monday 
came  back,  each  time  more  weakened  and  broken  and  dis- 
couraged. I  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  changing.  They 
began  to  protrude — a  sign  which  I  have  since  observed 
frequently  precedes  insanity.  One  day  when  his  loom 
broke  down  for  the  third  time  he  seized  one  of  the  shuttles 
and  demolished  the  reeds.  With  frenzied  cries  he  smashed 
right  and  left  until  the  guard  in  charge  of  the  section 
came  running  to  see  what  was  the  trouble. 

The  enraged  man  turned  upon  this  guard  and  endeav- 
ored to  strike  him  in  the  face  with  the  shuttle.  Without 
thinking  I  rushed  to  the  spot  and  threw  my  arms  about 
the  infuriated  man.  At  the  same  instant  the  guard  struct 
him  in  the  face  with  his  fist.  I  had  not  anticipated  this 
and  instantly  released  my  hold.  I  had  not  struck;  why 
should  the  guard? 

Three  days  later,  raving  and  foaming  at  the  mouth', 
the  little  Englishman  was  trussed  up  and  conveyed  to  one 
of  the  insane  asylums,  where  he  died  a  few  months  later. 

For  the  part  I  had  taken  in  this  affair  I  was  condemned 
by  a  number  of  the  prisoners.  It  is  an  unwritten  law  that 
no  prisoner  shall  ever  assist  an  officer  in  subduing  another 
prisoner.  But  I  had  not  known  this,  and  it  probably 
would  not  have  made  any  difference  if  I  had,  for  I  acted 
instinctively.  Yet  I  know  of  cases  where  a  prisoner  has 
been  ostracized  and  branded  a  "stool-pigeon"  by  his  fel- 
lows for  preventing  a  guard's  murder.  I  was  never  able 
to  reason  this  out.  Had  the  man  remained  silent  and  had 
the  murder  occurred,  would  not  the  man  cognizant  of 
the  plan  have  been  a  murderer?  But  I  am  getting  ahead 
of  events. 

During  my  first  month  in  the  jute  mill  I  learned  a  num- 
ber of  interesting  things.  The  loom-tender  in  charge  of 


Donald  Lowrle  67 

the  section  where  I  worked  was  not  only  accommodating, 
but  also  willing  to  impart  information  that  it  sometimes 
requires  years  to  absorb.  I  learned,  among  other  things, 
that  many  of  the  weavers  were  able  to  finish  their  task 
by  1  or  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and  that  some  of  them 
then  worked  on  other  looms,  ostensibly  helping  friends 
to  get  through,  but  in  reality  doing  it  for  pay.  Men  with 
money  at  their  command  in  the  office  took  advantage  of 
this  to  hire  other  men  to  do  their  work,  paying  for  it  in 
commissaries  purchased  through  the  office.  Everything 
purchasable  through  the  office  had  a  distinct  value  in  to- 
bacco, which  was  the  medium  of  exchange.  A  cake  of  med- 
icated soap,  for  instance,  was  valued  at  five  sacks  of  to- 
bacco, towels  at  seven  sacks,  hats  at  from  fifty  to  one 
hundred  sacks,  according  to  quality,  and  so  on  covering 
everything  that  it  was  permissible  to  have. 

The  task  on  a  loom  is  100  yards  a  day,  and  an  expert 
can  weave  about  eighteen  yards  an  hour,  which  means  that 
he  can  do  his  task  in  less  than  six  hours.  The  working 
hours  are  from  6 :45  a.  m.  to  4 :30  p.  m.,  with  thirty  min- 
utes for  dinner.  The  whistle  for  dinner  is  at  11 :30  a.  m., 
and  it  requires  about  twelve  minutes  for  the  men  to  file 
out  through  the  arcade  into  the  upper  yard  and  the  mess 
hall,  each  man  being  counted  as  he  goes  in  and  out  of  the 
mill  yard. 

This  made  a  working  day  of  more  than  nine  hours,  and 
the  expert  weavers  had  three  hours  each  day  for  recreation 
or  for  doing  extra  work,  as  they  chose. 

The  charge  for  weaving  was  twenty  yards  for  a  sack 
of  tobacco,  or  more  than  an  hour's  work  for  five  cents. 

As  I  was  without  funds,  and  needed  such  necessaries 
as  were  allowed,  I  determined  to  become  an  expert  weaver 
and  thus  have  the  time  to  earn  what  I  wanted  in  the  way 
of  extras.  In  six  weeks  I  was  able  to  finish  my  task  by 
3  o'clock,  and  spent  the  other  hour  and  a  half  working 


68  My  Life  in  Prison 

for  a  "bon-ton,"  the  term  applied  to  those  prisoners  who 
are  able  to  have  their  work  done  for  them.  In  this  way 
I  soon  had  what  I  wanted  and  was  as  comfortable  as  cir- 
cumstances would  permit. 

In  hurrying  to  get  through  with  my  own  task,  however, 
I  became  careless  and  would  sometimes  leave  "skips"  in 
the  cloth  or  fail  to  repair  a  "break"  as  it  should  be.  This 
led  to  my  being  "called  to  the  table"  and  reprimanded. 

Each  loom  has  its  number,  and  as  a  roll  of  100  yards 
is  finished  it  is  labelled  with  the  number  of  the  loom.  When 
this  roll  passes  through  the  cutter  to  be  cut  into  the  prop- 
er lengths,  for  making  the  grain  bags,  an  inspector 
watches  each  cut  as  it  drops  off,  pulling  out  those  in  which 
he  sees  defects.  These  defective  pieces,  with  the  number 
of  the  loom,  are  sent  to  "the  table,"  where  the  head  weaver 
and  an  assistant  examine  them.  If  it  is  evident  that  the 
weaver  has  been  careless  he  is  sent  for  and  the  defective 
cloth  shown  him.  He  is  warned  that  he  must  do  better 
work,  and  a  record  of  the  warning,  with  the  date,  is  en- 
tered on  a  book  kept  for  that  purpose.  If  this  same  man 
is  sent  for  three  times  within  a  month  he  is  reported  to  the 
Captain  of  the  Yard  for  punishment. 

At  that  time  this  punishment  consisted  either  of  24* 
hours  in  the  "jacket"  or  three  days  in  the  dungeon  on 
bread  and  water. 

I  had  learned  a  great  deal  about  the  "jacket"  from  my 
loom-tender,  and  also  from  my  cellmates,  and  after  lis- 
tening to  the  warnings  at  "the  table"  I  returned  to  my 
loom  determined  not  to  be  called  up  again. 

It  prevented  me  from  finishing  my  task  as  early  as  I 
had  been  doing,  but  it  also  prevented  my  making  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  the  "jacket." 

I  found  that  the  "jacket"  was  greatly  feared  by  all 
prisoners,  yet  this  fear  did  not  prevent  its  being  used 
every  day. 


Donald  Lowrie  69 

This  only  goes  to  bear  out  my  belief  that  fear  has  no 
legitimate  place  in  the  training  of  men.  What  a  man  fears 
he  generally  hates,  and  hate  incites  resentment  and  de- 
fiance. 

The  man  who  is  influenced  by  fear  in  refraining  from 
certain  acts,  whether  positive  or  negative,  is  essentially 
a  coward,  and  cowardice  unmakes,  rather  than  makes, 
men. 

Twist  this  as  you  will,  it  is  irrefutable. 

Man  is  prone  to  fear  that  which  he  does  not  under- 
stand. 

So  when  I  was  "called  to  the  table"  and  warned  that 
I  must  make  better  cloth  I  decided  to  do  so.  I  did  not 
want  the  humiliation  of  being  trussed  up  in  a  "jacket" 
like  a  dangerous  maniac,  and  I  knew  that  I  could  make 
better  cloth  by  being  careful.  True,  it  would  cut  into  my 
extra  time  and  prevent  my  working  for  others  and  earn- 
ing tobacco  for  the  purchase  of  necessary  comforts,  but 
not  entirely  so.  It  would  merely  take  me  longer  to  get 
what  I  needed. 

One  night  about  two  months  after  I  entered  the  mill 
the  "Count"  failed  to  appear  in  our  cell  at  lock-up.  As 
soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  us  Smoky  told  me  the  reason. 

"Franco-Germany  is  at  the  'springs'  f'r  the  night  f'r 
makin'  bad  cloth,"  he  informed  us.  "I  tol'  him  t'  get  next 
t'  himself,  but  he  kep'  on  takin'  chances,  an*  now  he's 
roped  up  in  th'  sack." 

"I  saw  them  taking  him  up  this  afternoon,"  commented 
the  'kid,'  "and  he  looked  like  the  last  rose  of  summer. 
He's  been  flirtin'  with  the  * j  acket'  ever  since  he  came  here ; 
now  he'll  find  out  what  th'  old  girl  is  like." 

There  was  more  room  in  the  cell  with  one  member  ab- 
sent, and  the  "Count's"  misfortune  did  not  seem  to  arouse 
much  sympathy. 


70  My  Life  in  Prison 

"What-a  he  do  for  da  cod-a  oil?"  asked  Spaghetti;  "he 
no  getta  da  med  in  da  hole." 

"Oh,  he's  gettin'  his  medicine,  all  right,"  said  Smoky. 
"Maybe  if  he  spent  a  few  days  down  there  he'd  f'rget  his 
drug  store  stunt." 

We  spent  the  evening  talking  of  the  "Count's"  plight, 
and  I  was  conscious  of  a  curiosity  to  have  him  return  so 
that  I  might  learn  what  it  was  like. 

The  next  night  on  going  to  the  cell  we  found  the 
"Count"  sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bunk,  nursing  a  bottle 
of  medicine. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  than  he  stripped  off  his 
upper  garments  and  showed  us  the  marks,  where  the  ropes 
had  bound  him. 

"It  was  terrible  !"  he  whined.  "I'll  never  live  to  get  out 
of  this  place  alive  now!" 

The  marks  of  the  ropes  were  plainly  discernible  on  his 
pink  body;  red  stripes  showed  where  the  bonds  had  held 
him. 

"Tell  us  abou;  it,"  I  asked. 

"Well,  they  said  I  made  bad  cloth,  and  I  promised  to 
do  better,  but  it  was  the  fourth  time  this  month,  so  they! 
sent  me  to  the  office.  I  tried  to  square  it  with  the  Cap- 
tain, but  he  wouldn't  listen.  'Take  him  to  the  hole,'  was 
all  he  said. 

"They  took  me  down  to  the  dungeon  and  into  one  of  the 
dark  cells.  There  was  an  old  mattress  on  the  floor  and 
they  told  me  to  lay  down  on  it,  and  they  put  the  'packet' 
on  me.  It  held  my  arms  so  I  couldn't  move  them,  but  that 
wasn't  enough.  They  turned  me  over  on  my  stomach  and 

laced  me  up.  R put  his  foot  in  the  middle  of  my 

back  so  as  to  pull  the  ropes  up  tight,  and  when  I  hollere'd 
he  laughed  and  said:  'You'll  make  bad  cloth,  will  you? 
We'll  teach  you  how  to  make  it  good.' 

"After  they  had  me  laced  up  so  I  could  hardly  breathe 


Donald  Lowrie  71 

they  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  It  was  about  3  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  but  when  the  door  was  shut  it  was  just 
like  night.  For  half  an  hour  or  so  I  didn't  suffer  much, 
but  gradually  I  began  to  feel  smothered,  and  my  heart 
hurt  me  when  it  beat.  I  got  scared  and  began  to  holler, 
but  that  only  made  my  heart  hurt  more,  and  I  was  afraid 
I  might  die  if  I  didn't  lie  still.  Pretty  soon  my  arms  and 
hands  began  to  tingle — just  like  pins  and  needles  sticking 
in  them — and  this  got  so  bad  that  I  couldn't  stand  it  and 
I  began  yelling  again.  Some  guy  in  the  next  cell  called 
me  a  'mutt'  and  told  me  to  'lay  down.' 

"  'Dis  is  a  picnic,'  he  said.  'You'll  soon  get  used  to  it 
and  go  to  sleep.' 

"But  the  longer  I  stayed  there  the  worse  it  got,  and  I 
rolled  over  on  my  face  and  bit  the  mattress  to  keep  from 
yelling. 

"It  seemed  like  a  week  before  the  lock-up  bell  rang.  I 
had  forgot  all  about  that  and  thought  it  was  late  at 
night.  Only  two  hours  since  I  had  been  laced  up.  That 
meant  twenty-two  hours  more. 

"I  gave  up.    I  didn't  think  I  could  live  that  long. 

"Just  after  lock-up  they  brought  another  fellow  in  and 
put  him  in  the  next  cell.  I  screamed  for  them  to  come  and 
let  me  out,  and  they  opened  the  door.  It  was  the  night 
sergeant  and  a  trusty. 

"'What's  the  matter?'  asked  the  sergeant. 

"'I'm  dying,'  I  gasped.  'My  heart  is  weak;  I  can't 
stand  this.' 

"At  first  the  sergeant  laughed  and  turned  as  if  to  go 
out,  but  just  as  he  got  to  the  door  he  stopped. 

"  'Loosen  him  up,'  he  said  to  the  trusty,  speaking  low, 
so  the  men  in  the  other  cells  couldn't  hear.  'I  suppose  I'll 
lose  my  job  some  day  for  doing  this  kind  of  thing,  but  I 
can't  help  it.' 

"The  trusty  seemed  glad  to  loosen  the  ropes,  and  it  was 


72  My  Life  in  Prison 

like  heaven  to  me.  Just  before  he  went  out  he  held  a  can 
of  water  to  my  mouth  and  gave  me  a  drink. 

"It  got  awful  cold  in  the  night  and  I  couldn't  move,  but 
just  lay  there  and  shivered  in  the  dark.  I  thought  the 
morning  would  never  come,  but  at  last  I  heard  the  bell. 

They  let  me  out  this  afternoon,  and  R was  surprised 

to  find  the  ropes  so  loose. 

"  'It  beats  hell  how  these  stiffs  manage  to  work  these 
ropes  loose,'  he  said.  'I  tied  this  foreigner  up  to  a  fare- 
ye-well,  and  here  he  is  wearin'  a  mother  hmbbard.  But  wait 
till  I  get  you  the  next  time,'  he  snarled." 


CHAPTER  VII 

One  night  at  lock-up  the  "kid"  came  staggering  into 
the  cell,  "all  in."  As  soon  as  the  door  closed  he  sank 
on  the  stool  in  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.  We  waited  pity- 
ingly until  it  was  over  and  then  Smoky  spoke.  As  usual 
under  such  circumstances,  he  asked  a  foolish  question. 

"Wot's  th'  matter,  kid?    Ain't  y'r  feelin'  well?" 

The  boy's  big,  sorrowful  eyes  took  on  an  expression  of 
gratitude  at  the  sympathy  vibrant  in  the  words. 

"No,  I  ain't  feeling  very  good,"  he  gasped.  "I  can't 
stand  that  mill  much  longer.  It  got  me  to-day — it  was 
so  hot,  and  I  spit  blood  all  afternoon.  I  saw  the  croaker 
when  I  came  up  and  asked  him  to  give  me  another  job, 
but  he  stuck  a  thermometer  in  my  mouth  and  then  called 
me  a  faker  and  gave  me  a  dose  of  salts." 

He  stopped  to  cough  and  expectorate  into  the  bucket. 

"Roll  me  a  cigarette,  Smoky,  will  you?"  he  asked,  trying 
to  smile. 

"Yer  oughter  cut  cigarettes,  kid,"  Smoky  warned  him, 
"but  I  understands  how  y'r  feel — y'r  wanter  have  it  over, 
don't  you?" 

He  was  rolling  the  cigarette  as  he  spoke,  but  dropped 
it  to  the  floor  in  consternation.  The  "kid"  had  broken 
into  convulsive,  abandoned  weeping,  his  hands  hanging 
dead  at  his  sides  and,the  tears  rolling  down  and  dropping 
into  his  lap,  unheeded,  unchecked. 

"You  poor  little  God-forsaken  kid,"  gulped  Smoky, 
73 


74  My  Life  In  Prison 

turning  his  back  and  gazing  intently  at  the  wall.  In  fact, 
we  all  turned  abruptly  so  that  our  faces  were  concealed 
from  one  another. 

Spaghetti  began  to  whistle  the  only  tune  he  knew — an 
insidious,  elusive  Italian  air,  and  the  "Count"  took  four 
kinds  of  medicine  with  absent-minded  rapidity.  I  con- 
fess that  I  was  obliged  to  use  my  handkerchief — an  ample 
bandanna. 

Smoky  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  turned  and  placed 
his  hands  under  the  boy's  armpits. 

"Come  on,  kid;  y'r  better  go  t'  bed,  an*  I'm  going  t' 
see  if  I  can't  get  y'r  somethin'." 

We  all  helped  put  the  "kid"  to  Hed,  and  the  "Count" 
insisted  on  giving  him  his  feather  pillow — an  evidence  of 
his  Alsatian  remittance  and  the  only  feather  pillow  in  the 
'cell.  After  the  "kid"  was  in  bed  and  covered  up  Smoky 
gave  a  peculiar  rap  on  the  wall. 

"Hello,"  came  the  faint  response  from  the  next  cell. 

"Hello,  Fatty,  is  that  you?"  shouted  Smoky. 

"Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"Th'  kid's  all  in.  Can  y'r  slip  me  somethin'?  You 
know.  I'll  t'row  out  a  string." 

"Sure  thing,"  came  the  cheery  response.  "Glad  I'm 
fixed  to  do  you  a  favor,  Smoky." 

Smoky  immediately  got  busy.  Reaching  under  his  mat- 
tress he  produced  a  little  ball  of  jute  string,  to  the  end 
of  which  he  attached  a  small  wire  hook.  He  then  arranged 
the  string  in  the  form  of  a  lasso,  and,  going  to  the  wicket, 
flipped  it  outward  in  the  direction  of  the  next  cell.  He 
stood  tensely,  for  a  few  minutes,  his  eye  cocked  at  the 
wicket,  watching  and  listening  for  the  guard.  Then  he 
uttered  an  ejaculation  of  satisfaction  and  began  to  draw 
in  the  string. 

Pretty  soon  the  little  hook  appeared,  and  caught  in  it 
was  another  hook,  which  was  also  attached  to  a  piece  of 


Donald  Lowrie  75 

string.  Belatedly  I  realized  what  had  occurred.  One  of 
the  men  in  the  adjacent  cell  had  thrown  out  a  string  and 
hook  so  that  it  had  fallen  across  our  string,  and  when 
Smoky  drew  the  string  of  course  the  two  hooks  caught.  A 
line  of  material  communication  had  been  established  be- 
tween the  two  cells. 

"Dis  is  dead  against  th'  rules,"  Smoky  advised  me,  hur- 
riedly. "If  th'  bull  chances  t'  hike  along  it  means  th* 
hole  f'r  y'r  Uncle  Dudley."  He  reached  over  and  tapped 
on  the  wall.  Presently  there  came  an  answering  tap  and 
Smoky  began  hauling  in  the  string,  rapidly,  but  carefully. 
Suddenly  a  little  paper  package  rustled  through  the 
wicket.  Smoky  seized  it.  He  didn't  wait  to  untie  it  from 
the  line,  but  broke  the  string.  Then  he  rapped  on  the 
wall  again. 

"I  broke  y'r  string,  Fatty,"  he  called.  "You  savvy. 
It's  a  big  chance  we  took,  an'  I  won't  f 'rgit  y'r  f'r  it.  I'll 
give  y'r  y'r  hook  in  th'  mornin'." 

Much  to  my  disappointment  Smoky  turned  his  baclc 
while  he  unwrapped  the  little  package.  Then  he  dipped 
some  water  from  our  water  bucket  and  leaned  down  over 
the  "kid." 

"Here,  take  dis,  quick,  and  den  drink  dis  water,"  he 
ordered. 

The  boy  opened  his  mouth  and  Smoky  dropped  a  small 
pellet  between  the  parted  lips,  and  then  held  the  tin  cup 
while  the  boy  drank. 

I  wondered  what  it  was  and  could  hardly  refrain  from 
asking  the  question,  but  intuitively  knew  enough  not  to 
do  so. 

In  ten  minutes  the  boy  was  fast  asleep.  None  of  us 
spoke.  The  "Count"  yawned  several  times  and  then  crept 
into  his  bunk,  and  he  was  soon  followed  by  Spaghetti. 

Smoky  had  a  month-old  copy  of  the  San  Francisco  Bul- 
letin and  read  it  from  beginning  to  end,  including  the  ad- 


76  My  Life  In  Prison 

vertisements,  without  saying  a  word,  his  heavy,  prize-fight- 
er j  aws  held  at  a  belligerent  angle.  He  had  what  a  "crim- 
inologist,"  so-called,  would  class  as  a  "criminal  face." 

I  sat  there  staring  into  space,  not  thinking  of  anything 
in  particular,  just  in  a  kind  of  wide-awake  trance,  while 
my  subconscious  mind  skimmed  over  a  thousand  things. 

At  last  Smoky  folded  the  paper,  folded  it  carefully, 
so  that  he  might  slip  it  to  someone  else — for  a  contraband 
paper  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand  until  it  is  worn  out — 
and  then  he  spoke. 

"They're  all  asleep,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  with  just  the 
slightest  inflection  of  suggestion,  as  though  he  knew  I 
wanted  to  ask  him  something  that  he  was  willing  to  tell. 

I  got  up  and  looked  into  the  faces  of  our  three  cell- 
mates as  they  lay. 

"Yes,  they're  asleep,"  I  whispered.  "What  was  it  you 
gave  the  'kid'?" 

And  then  Smoky  came  close  and  looked  searchingly  into 
my  eyes,  long  and  steadily,  until  they  wavered. 

"I  believes  y'r  on  th'  square,"  he  finally  whispered. 
"Are  y'r?" 

"You  bet  I  am,"  I  responded  earnestly. 

"Well,  dat  wuz — D-O-P-E — th'  real  thing.  But  dat's 
enough,"  he  added,  quickly,  raising  his  hand  as  another 
question  framed  itself  in  my  mind.  "I'll  see  y'r  in  th'  yard 
termorrer.  Dere's  a  whole  lot  yer've  got  to  learn  'bout 
idis  dump.  Let's  turn  in." 

Before  retiring  I  wanted  a  drink,  but  did  without.  There 
was  no  way  to  wash  the  cup. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  I  sought  and  found 
"Smoky"  in  the  yard.  He  led  me  around  to  the  east  side, 
where  it  was  less  crowded,  and  we  stopped  under  one  of 
the  iron  stairways  of  the  cell  building. 

"About  that  deal  last  night,"  he  began.  "Ordinar'ly 
I  wouldn't  let  anybody  in  on  a  thing  of  that  kind,  but; 


Donald  Lowrie  7? 

the  kid  was  so  bad  I  had  t'  do  somethin'.  As  I  said  before, 
I  think  y'r  on  the  square;  if  I  didn't  think  so  I  wouldn't 
be  talkin'  t'  y'r. 

"Havin'  or  handlin'  dope  is  a  mighty  ticklish  business 
here.  It's  takin'  y'r  life  an'  hangin'  it  on  a  cobweb. 
They've  already  croaked  five  or  six  guys  in  th'  jacket, 
tryin'  t'  make  'em  squeal.  I  never  use  th'  rotten  stuff  my- 
self, an'  I  never  encourages  anyone  else  t'  use  it,  but  once 
in  a  while  it  comes  in  mighty  handy,  like  las'  night  f'r 
instance." 

"Smoky"  was  gradually  warming  up  to  his  theme,  his 
eyes  were  taking  on  a  reminiscent  glow,  and  I  knew  enough 
to  remain  silent. 

"A  few  years  ago  this  dump  was  full  of  dope.  Every 
other  man  y'r  met  had  a  heat  on,  an*  lots  o'  young  kids 
what  came  here  strong  an'  healthy  went  out  with  a  habit. 
D'y'r  know  what  that  means?  It  means  they  would  be 
back  in  five  or  six  weeks,  or  maybe  even  worse,  f'r  lots  of 
'em  took  t'  livin'  on  women.  I  ain't  no  saint — I've  busted 
th'  law  a  hundred  times,  tore  big  holes  in  it,  an'  I  ain't 
th'  kind  what  t'rows  bouquets  at  m'self,  but  there's  two 
t'ings  I'm  proud  of — no,  t'ree  t'ings :  I  ain't  never  used 
dope,  I  ain't  never  been  a  mack,  an'  I  ain't  never  robbed 
anyone  what  trusted  me.  Some  day  when  I  get  good  and 
ready — if  I  can  forget  that  Fresno  judge,  and  a  few  more 
t'ings — I'm  goin'  t'  straighten  up.  Maybe  I'll  do  it  this 
time,  if  th'  cops  give  me  a  chance.  But  that  ain't  what 
I  started  t'  tell  y'r.  Up  to  a  year  ago  th'  place  was  full 
o'  dope;  up  to  th'  time  Aguirre  (the  warden)  came.  I 
ain't  got  no  use  f'r  Aguirre,  but  he's  done  one  t'ing  what 
no  man  ever  did  before,  an'  he  deserves  a  medal  f'r  it — 
he's  got  th'  dope  out  o'  this  prison — almost.  He's  killed 
a  few  guys  doin'  it,  but  there  was  no  other  way.  I've  seen 
too  many  young  fellars  go  to  hell  here,  an'  if  that  can 


78  My  Life  In  Prison 

be  stopped  by  sendin'  a  few  more  dope  fiends  out  fee? 
first,  why  I  say  send  'em  out,  an*  a  good  job. 

"When  he  first  came  here  everybody  had  money,  an* 
th'  place  was  wide  open;  th'  lid  was  off.  But  soon  after 
he  took  charge  we  got  an  awful  jolt — th'  bell  didn't  ring 
one  Sunday  mornin',  th'  first  time  in  th'  history  of  th' 
prison,  they  say. 

"Instead  o'  ringing  th'  bell  they  came  around  an'  un- 
locked th'  cells  one  at  a  time  an'  made  us  step  out  on  th' 
tier  in  our  underclothes.  They  frisked  us  that  way,  an' 
then  went  into  th'  cell  an'  handed  out  th'  rest  of  our  duds, 
a  piece  at  a  time,  friskin'  each  piece  before  they  gave  it  to 
us.  Then  they  locked  th'  cell,  and  we  dressed  out  on  th' 
tier  an*  went  down  to  th'  yard. 

"After  ev'rybody  was  out  o'  th*  cells  we  went  t'  break- 
fast. 

"All  that  day  they  searched  th'  cells,  an'  maybe  they 
didn't  make  a  clean-up — dope,  money,  knives,  oil  stoves, 
saws  an'  ev'rything  y'r  can  imagine. 

"  'Bout  five  o'clock  we  was  locked  up  again,  an'  instead 
o'  going  t'  work  the  next  day  we  stayed  in  th'  cells,  an* 
they  searched  th'  shops  an'  th'  mill.  They  came  pretty 
near  gettin'  all  th'  dope  there  was  in  th'  place. 

"It  was  a  dandy  scheme,  an'  it  worked  to  a  T.  Nobody 
got  wise  to  it  till  it  was  pulled  off. 

"I  know  one  hop  merchant — 'Willie-off-th'-Pickle-Boat,* 
they  called  him — what  lost  $300.  They  was  supposed  t' 
turn  all  money  inter  th'  office  t'  go  on  th'  books,  but  lots 
of  it  never  got  there. 

"When  they  let  us  out  o'  th'  cells  on  Tuesday  momin' 
there  was  a  big  notice  up  in  th'  yard  sayin'  that  any  guy 
caught  with  dope  or  money  after  a  certain  date  would  lose 
all  his  credits  an*  He  severely  punished,  but  that  anyone 
could  turn  in  whatever  they  had  up  t'  that  time  an'  noth- 


Donald  Lowrie  79 

in'  would  be  done  to  'em.  Of  course  nothin*  was  turned 
in — leastwise  I  never  heard  of  any. 

"Y'r  oughter  seen  that  bunch  o'  dope  fiends.  'Bout 
fifty  of  them  had  t'  go  t'  th'  hospital  f'r  treatment,  an'  I 
even  saw  two  or  three  guys  eat  chloride  o'  lime  to  stop 
their  yen. 

"It  was  awful.  Guys  what  I  never  suspicioned  o'  usin' 
'dope  went  around  beggin'  friends  f'r  a  ball  right  out  in 
th'  open. 

"Take  dope  away  from  a  fiend  an*  y'r  take  away  ev'ry- 
thing.  He  ain't  got  no  principle  or  nothin'  left — till  he's 
cured. 

"Well,  o'  course  lots  o'  guys  started  schemin'  t'  get 
more  dope  right  away. 

"A  lot  o'  th'  guards  had  been  makin'  good  money  bring- 
in'  th'  stuff  from  th'  city,  an'  in  a  couple  o'  weeks  there 
was  a  fresh  supply.  But  it  was  so  little  compared  to  what 
had  been  there  before  that  they  was  like  a  lot  o'  tigers 
after  it,  an'  it  didn't  take  long  f'r  th'  bulls  t'  get  next. 
Finally  they  caught  one  guy  dead  t'  rights  with  the  goods 
right  on  him. 

"That  was  when  they  first  started  usin'  th'  jacket.  Up 
t'  that  time  it  was  hangin'  by  th'  thumbs,  or  th'  dungeon 
for  a  month  or  two.  Nobody  thought  th'  jacket  was  bad. 
But  after  th'  first  guy  got  squeezed  a  few  hours  he  yelped 
— tol'  where  he  got  th'  stuff,  an'  they  pinched  another 
guy.  He  squealed  quicker'n  th'  first  guy,  an'  then  they 
went  right  down  the  line.  Before  they  got  through  they 
had  20  or  30  in  th'  hole,  all  a'souealin'  on  each  other, 
until  they  got  th'  one  what  knew  how  th'  dope  came  in, 
an'  he  squealed  on  th'  guard.  He " 

Smoky  broke  off  abruptly  and  a  hard  look  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"There's  a  stool-pigeon  tin-earin'  right  behind  us,"  he 
warned  me.  "Prob'ly  heard  me  say  'dope'  an'  thinks  he 


80  My  Life  in  Prison 

can  get  somethin'  t'  peddle  at  th'  office.  Let's  go  some- 
where else." 

Smoky  had  not  turned  around,  yet,  sure  enough,  one  of 
the  notorious  stool-pigeons  of  the  prison  was  standing 
close  behind  us. 

Silently  I  followed  Smoky  to  another  part  of  the  yard. 

Arrived  at  the  other  end  of  the  yard,  Smoky  and  I 
spread  our  coats  on  the  asphaltum  and  lay  down  in  the 
sun. 

"Let's  see;  where  was  I?"  he  mused. 

"You'd  just  finished  about  the  bunch  squealing  on  one 
another  in  that  dope  deal,"  I  prompted. 

"Oh,  yes.  They  all  squealed — trust  dope  fiends  t'  do 
that  ev'ry  time — an*  th'  guard  got  canned.  A  lot  of  'em 
lost  their  credits,  an*  when  they  came  out  o'  th'  hole  an* 
told  about  th'  jacket  it  put  th'  fear  o'  hell  inter  th'  hearts 
of  th'  rest  of  th'  fiends — that  is,  all  but  a  few. 

"Then  th'  Legislature  passed  a  law  makin*  it  a  felony 
t'  bring  dope  inter  th'  prison,  an'  that  scared  off  th' 
guards.  It  got  harder  t'  get  dope,  but  some  guys  kept  at 
it,  an'  there  was  several  squealin'  bees  before  th'  thing 
died  down.  One  guy  stuck  it  out  in  th'  jacket  f'r  ten  days 
before  he  hollered.  He  died  in  th'  hospital  twelve  days 
before  his  time  was  up  on  a  fourteen-year  sentence.  Baker 
was  his  name,  if  I  remember  right. 

"Th'  main  trouble  was  that  in  usin'  th'  jacket  on  th' 
hop-heads  they  got  careless  an'  got  t'  usin'  it  on  other 
guys  f'r  fightin'  an'  things  like  that.  There's  two  guys 
here  now  what  was  in  th'  jacket  f'r  fightin'  an'  got  para- 
lyzed. I'll  show  'em  t'  y'r  after  a  while ;  remind  me. 

"So  y'r  can  see  what  a  chance  I  took  f'r  th'  Kid  last 
night.  If  a  bull  had  come  along  an'  got  that  package  it 
would  'a'  been  curtains  Pr  all  of  us.  We'd  a  hit  th' 
jacket,  sure. 

"Many  an  innocent  guy  has  hit  th'  jacket  over  'dope. 


Donald  Lowrie  81 

I  know  one  feller  what  had  dope  dropped  inter  his  pocket 
by  another  guy  what  had  a  grudge  against  him.  This  guy 
tipped  it  off,  an'  when  they  pinched  him  an'  found  th' 
stuff  right  on  him  they  nearly  killed  him  in  th'  jacket  try- 
in'  t'  make  him  tell  where  he  got  it.  Th'  doctor  finally; 
told  'em  they'd  have  t'  let  up  if  they  didn't  want  t'  have 
th'  guy  die  in  th'  sack. 

"Another  case  where  an  innocent  guy  got  it  dead  wrong 
was  like  this : 

"A  feller  what  wos  goin'  out  promised  t'  send  some  mor- 
phine to  his  cellmate.  He  was  t'  sprinkle  it  between  th' 
pages  of  a  magazine  an'  then  paste  th'  pages  together 
here  an'  there  an'  mail  th'  magazine.  But  so's  not 
t'  take  any  chance,  they  put  up  a  job.  Th'  guy  what 
was  t'  get  th'  dope  got  through  his  task  early  an* 
came  up  in  th'  first  line  from  th'  mill,  an'  th'  fellers  in  th' 
next  cell  never  got  through  their  work  till  th'  whistle  at 
half-past  four.  So  th'  magazine  was  t'  be  addressed  t' 
one  of  these  guys  in  th'  next  cell — him  not  knowin'  it, 
of  course — an'  th'  feller  who  was  t'  get  th'  stuff,  comin* 
up  from  th'  mill  early,  was  t'  go  inter  th'  cell  an'  yaffle 
th'  magazine.  You  know  how  they  deliver  th'  magazine 
mail  in  th'  cells  ev'ry  day. 

"Well,  th'  guy  what  went  out  sent  back  th'  stuff  all 
right,  just  as  he  promised,  an'  he  addressed  it  t'  th'  guy 
in  th'  next  cell,  but  they  nailed  th'  magazine  at  th'  office 
an'  found  th'  plant.  They  sent  f'r  th'  innocent  guy  an* 
showed  it  to  him  an'  told  him  he'd  have  t'  tell  who  sent  it 
t'  him  so  they  could  pinch  th'  party  an'  prosecute  him. 
Of  course,  he  said  he  didn't  know  anything  about  it,  an* 
he  hit  th'  jacket  an'  got  nearly  killed.  Th'  only  thing 
that  saved  him  was  that  th'  guy  in  th'  next  cell  what  had 
put  up  th'  job  got  word  out  underground  t'  th'  party  out- 
side what  had  sent  th'  dope,  an'  he  wrote  t'  th'  warden 
an'  explained  how  it  happened,  an'  then  ducked  his  nut. 


82  My  Life  in  Prison 

Of  course,  he  didn't  tell  who  th'  stuff  was  really  intended 
for. 

"It  was  a  fierce  case,  all  right,  an*  goes  t'  show  how  a 
dead  innocent  guy  can  get  up  against  it,  but  I  know  a 
lot  more  cases  just  as  bad — even  worse. 

"Dope'll  make  a  man  do  anything.  There  uster  be  a 
murder  here  nearly  ev'ry  month  in  them  days,  an'  I  al- 
ways carried  a  shive  m'self.  Ev'rybody  carried  a  shive. 
Y'r  had  t'  carry  one.  I  got  stabbed  one  day  in  th'  yard. 
A  dope  fiend  came  up  behind  me  an'  mistook  me  f'r  some 
guy  what  he  wanted  t'  croak.  Th'  only  thing  that  saved 
me  was  I  got  a  hunch  somethin'  was  goin'  t'  happen  an* 
turned  around  just  as  he  tried  t'  stick  me.  Th'  shive 
struck  kinder  glancin'  like,  an'  I  sidestepped  and  batted 
him  one  under  th'  ear  before  he  knew  what  hit  him,  knock- 
in'  him  cold.  Then  I  ducked  into  th'  crowd.  They  never 
found  out  who  hit  him,  an'  some  friend  of  his  took  th' 
knife  away  before  callin'  a  bull. 

"But  that's  all  a  thing  of  th'  past.  There  ain't  much 
dope  here  now,  an'  it's  curtains  t'  get  nailed  with  it.  You 
don't  need  any  advice,  I  guess ;  only  look  out  who  y'r  runs 
with,  an'  allus  keep  y'r  mouth  shut  an'  y'r  ears  and  eyes 
open.  It's  hard  t'  get  in  wrong  if  y'r  watch  y'rself, 
an'—" 

"Der  y'r  see  that  shine  comin'  down  over  there  by 
th'  stairs?"  Smoky  suddenly  interjected;  "th'  one  car- 
ryin'  his  hand  up?" 

I  looked  in  the  direction  indicated  and  saw  a  medium- 
sized  negro  with  one  arm  bent  almost  at  a  right  angle 
from  the  elbow,  and  with  stiffened  fingers,  resembling 
claws. 

"Well,  that's  one  of  th'  guys  I  told  y'r  got  paralyzed  in 
th'  jacket.  He  got  inter  a  fight  here  in  th'  yard  with  a 
white  feller,  an'  th'  bull  what  pinched  'em  had  it  in  f'r 
'em  an'  he  put  'em  in  th'  j  acket  himself. 


Donald  Lowrie  83 

"When  they  icame  out  they  was  both  paralyzed.  Th' 
other  guy  is  worse  than  him,  an'  won't  live  long.  There's 
some  talk  of  takin'  his  case  before  th'  Legislature.  He's 
got  friends  in  Frisco,  but  th'  shine  ain't  got  no  friends." 

The  negro  was  quite  close  now,  and  I  looked  at  him 
closely.  His  face  was  chalky,  over  his  black  skin,  as 
though  it  had  been  dusted  with  white  powder,  and  I  saw 
tb-°  hideous,  grinning  skull  of  death  in  his  tired  eyes. 

"For  God's  sake,  Smoky,  sho^  me  the  man  that  did  it !" 
I  said,  tensely,  "I  want  to  keep  otit  of  his  way." 

"I  knew  y'r'd  ask  that,"  laughed  Smoky;  "they  all  do. 
He's  th'  man  in  charge  of  th'  cells  an'  th'  cell  yard.  Come 
with  me." 

We  got  up  and  Smoky  led  the  way  up  the  yard,  dodg- 
ing through  the  crowd.  At  the  south  end  of  the  shed  he 
stopped. 

"D'y'r  see  that  bull  walkin'  over  there  with  his  head 
down  an'  his  hands  in  his  hip  pockets?  Well,  that's  him." 

One  swift  glance  and  I  turned  abruptly  away.  It  was 
the  same  man  whom  I  had  seen  strike  down  the  wretch  that 
had  escaped  from  "crazy  alley"  a  few  weeks  before. 

The  negro  managed  to  survive  to  the  end  of  his  sentence 
and  was  discharged — with  five  dollars.  The  other  man, 

S ,  was  paroled  on  account  of  impaired  health.  Later 

he  appeared  before  the  California  Legislature  and  stated 
his  case,  and  a  committee  was  appointed  to  investigate  the 

strait-jacket  at  San  Quentin.  Shortly  afterward  S 

died.  His  death  was  directly  due  to  the  jacketing  that 
paralyzed  him.  The  man  who  laced  it  is  still  employed. 
He  still  puts  men  in  the  jacket — occasionally. 

During  the  years  that  followed  I  became  intimately 
acquainted  with  this  man.  He  has  many  fine  traits  and 
is  an  excellent  officer  in  many  respects.  I  have  known  him 
to  furnish  an  old  lifer  with  the  funds  necessary  for  parole ; 
I  have  known  him  to  do  a  number  of  kind  and  humane 


84  My  Life  in  Prison 

things.  I  have  not  the  least  particle  of  personal  com- 
plaint against  him,  nor  against  any  other  employe  at  San 
Quentin,  but  I  am  not  going  to  dodge  facts.  I  know  this 
man  to  be  unjust,  cruel  and  vindictive.  I  have  seen  him 
strike  a  prisoner,  which  is  equivalent  to  striking  a  man 
who  is  down,  or  with  his  hand  tied,  and  which  is  a  direct 
violation  of  the  law  of  the  State  of  California. 

I  am  still  a  prisoner,  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  fact — in 
spirit  because  my  sympathies  are  with  prisoners;  in  fact 
because  I  am  merely  on  parole.  To  be  clearly  understood 
I  may  add  that  my  sympathies  are  not  with  prisoners  as 
criminals,  but  as  human  beings,  each  one — with  possibly 
a  few  exceptions — capable  of  being  moulded  into  a  good 
citizen. 

I  honestly  believe  this  officer  is  a  retarding  influence. 
All  the  prisoners  hate  him.  They  do  not  hate  the  war- 
den; they  do  not  hate  the  guards;  they  do  not  hate  one 
another,  but  they  hate  him.  Why?  It  would  require  a 
book  to  tell  that. 

I  feel  every  word  that  I  have  written.  I  feel  that  this 
man  is  a  menace  not  only  to  the  welfare  of  society,  but 
to  the  official  now  in  charge  at  San  Quentin,  who  is  my 
friend,  the  same  as  he  has  proved  himself  to  be  the  friend 
of  all  unfortunates.  But  he  does  not  know  what  I  know 
and  what  hundreds,  yes,  thousands,  of  others  know.  It 
seems  to  be  a  case  on  a  parity  with  that  of  a  deceived 
husband  whom  all  the  neighbors  regard  with  open-eyed 
wonder. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  legislative  committee  that  investigated  the  use  of 
the  straitjacket  at  San  Quentin  made  an  interesting  re- 
port. Almost  immediately  afterward  the  State  Board  of 
Prison  Directors  passed  a  resolution  regarding  this  form 
of  punishment.  Since  that  time  the  jacket  has  been  used 
in  "modified  form,"  the  modification  being  a  limitation  of 
time  rather  than  of  severity.  The  rule  is  that  no  prisoner 
shall  be  kept  in  the  jacket  for  more  than  six  consecutive 
hours.  Also  that  no  prisoner  shall  be  subjected  to  this  form 
of  punishment  save  after  examination  by  and  with  permis- 
sion of  the  physician. 

I  have  witnessed  the  "examination"  of  hundreds  of  men 
for  this  purpose.  It  consists  of  applying  a  stethoscope 
to  the  subject's  thorax.  This  in  itself  is  a  negative  ac- 
knowledgement that  the  jacket  is  a  dangerous  form  of 
punishment  and  liable  to  cause  death. 

But  before  these  rules  were  made  men  were  "cinched" 
in  the  jacket  and  left  there  two,  three,  five,  ten  days  with- 
out attention,  save  that  of  holding  a  crust  of  bread  and 
a  tin  of  water  to  the  victim's  mouth,  or  a  demand  for 
"confession." 

After  the  passage  of  the  resolution  fixing  the  six-hour 
limit  the  system  changed  merely  in  externals.  Confessions 
were  secured  with  the  same  monotonous  regularity.  The 
victims  were  kept  in  the  jacket  for  days,  even  weeks — 
six  hours  in,  six  hours  out.  six  hours  in,  six  hours  out. 

85 


86  My  Life  in  Prison 

And  the  victims  were  kept  in  the  dungeon  on  bread  and 
water  in  between  the  periods  of  "cinching." 

The  hours  for  changing  were  7  and  1.  Just  think  of 
being  awakened  at  1  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  spend  your 
allotted  six  hours  in  the  jacket! 

Sometimes  I  regret  never  having  had  the  experience  my- 
self, for  it  would  have  given  me  the  touch  of  "color"  so 
essential  to  description.  But  I  had  unusual  opportunities 
for  observation  at  first  hand.  For  a  number  of  years  I 
was  employed  in  the  clothing  room,  where  men  change 
their  clothes  before  going  to  the  dungeon,  and  where  they 
change  when  they  come  back. 

I  saw  scores  of  cases  and  I  talked  with  dozens  of  vic- 
tims immediately  after  their  punishment.  The  marks  of 
the  ropes,  the  red  stripes  around  the  torso  and  limbs, 
were  always  visible  and  the  skin  wrinkled  and  irritated  in 
between. 

Quite  often  a  man  was  unable  to  walk  without  assist- 
ance, and  those  who  could  walk  did  so  uncertainly  and 
feebly,  somewhat  like  a  man  who  is  drunk. 

A  strait  jacket  may  be  so  applied  that  it  will  kill  a 
man  in  a  few  minutes.  I  have  known  it  to  be  so  applied 
that  the  victim  screamed  for  mercy  within  an  hour,  mercy 
which  he  gained  by  "confessing." 

The  inmates  of  A  and  B  rooms  have  often  been  awak- 
ened in  the  dead  of  night  by  the  horrible  cries  and  curses 
of  men  in  the  dungeon  below,  although  the  intervening 
partition  is  of  solid  masonry. 

The  jacket  is  still  in  use  at  San  Quentin  and  Folsom. 
True,  it  is  used  very  seldom,  at  least  at  San  Quentin,  yet 
with  its  lessened  use  there  has  been  a  steady  improvement 
in  the  prison  discipline.  This  goes  to  show  how  utterly  in- 
effective and  barbaric  it  is  as  a  means  of  maintaining 
order.  So  long  as  it  may  be  used,  just  so  long  may  its 
use  be  abused. 


Donald  Lowrie  87 

It  should  be  abolished  by  legislative  enactment ;  in  fact, 
the  mode  of  punishing  prisoners  should  be  the  direct  will 
of  the  people,  expressed  through  their  Legislature.  So 
long  as  an  individual  has  the  power  to  devise  punishment, 
so  long  will  remain  the  possibility  of  torture  and  cruelty. 

Fortunately,  San  Quentin  is  now  in  charge  of  an  able, 
kind-hearted,  clear-headed  executive.  But  what  assurance 
is  there  that  it  will  be  always  so  governed? 

The  strait  jacket  was  first  used  in  the  fight  to  eliminate 
"dope"  from  the  prisons.  Used  for  that  purpose,  with 
all  the  facts  taken  into  consideration,  it  was  almost  justi- 
fiable, as  were  other  punishments,  rules  and  restrictions. 
But  now  that  "dope"  has  been  definitely  and  positively 
stamped  out,  why  should  these  restrictions  remain,  and 
why  should  these  punishments  still  prevail?  In  order  to 
keep  "dope"  out  ?  No.  Conditions  are  not  the  same. 

A  few  years  ago  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  get  "dope" 
in  almost  every  town  or  city  of  California.  Its  use  was 
quite  prevalent.  Every  third  or  fourth  prisoner  entering 
San  Quentin  at  that  time  was  a  "hop-head."  But  during 
the  past  two  or  three  years  I  do  not  know  of  one  drug 
fiend  being  received  at  San  Quentin.  True,  there  have 
been  sporadic  attempts  to  introduce  "dope"  into  the  pris- 
on, but  the  majority,  the  great  majority,  of  the  prisoners 
are  against  it,  and  each  attempt  has  been  promptly  re- 
ported. 

The  reason  for  this  attitude  on  the  part  of  prisoners 
is  easily  explained.  They  are  human  and  they  have  a  hu- 
man understanding  of  what  a  terrible  thing  "dope"  is. 
They  also  realize  that  their  privileges  and  treatment  de- 
pend in  a  large  measure  upon  themselves.  This  spirit  has 
developed  to  a  marked  degree  under  the  present  warden. 
He  has  discouraged  prisoners  from  carrying  tales  for  sel- 
fish reasons,  but  he  has  encouraged  them  to  help  them- 


88  My  Life  in  Prison 

selves  by  making  known  such  things  as  will  tend  to  keep 
them  down. 

Yet  certain  rules  and  regulations  devised  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  reducing  the  possibility  -of  smuggling  "dope" 
into  the  prison  are  still  in  force  and  effect. 

A  prisoner  may  not  receive  any  material  remembrance 
from  those  who  love  him — not  even  at  Christmas  time. 

He  may  not  receive  books,  save  by  order  direct  from 
the  prison  to  the  publisher. 

I  know  one  prisoner- — a  lifer — who  has  a  valuable  set 
of  textbooks  at  home,  but  he  cannot  have  them.  It  is 
against  the  rules.  But  he  may  order  the  same  books  from 
a  publisher.  He  is  without  money;  therefore  without  the 
books. 

When  the  present  warden  took  charge  four  years  ago 
he  started  to  change  these  rules,  but  was  urged  not  to  do 
so.  They  are  still  in  effect. 

What  does  this  mean ;  it  means  that  every  prisoner  who 
enters  San  Quentin  is  reduced  to  the  level  of  the  dope 
fiends  who  were  imprisoned  there  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago. 

It  means  that  every  prisoner  is  reduced  to  the  lowest 
moral  status  that  has  ever  prevailed. 

It  means  that  home  ties  and  loving  sentiments,  the  fun- 
damentals of  our  social  cohesion,  are  almost  completely 
taken  out  of  his  life. 

Experience  has  demonstrated  that  prisoners  are  sus- 
ceptible to  kindness — that  they  respond  to  a  recognition 
of  the  fact  that  they  are  human  and  have  human  feelings. 

This  beinfir  so,  why  should  it  not  be  extended  to  the 
greatest  possible  degree  consistent  with  their  safe  deten- 
tion and  proper  government? 

There  are  some  who  believe  that  a  prison  should  be  a 
place  of  punishment — or  revenge.  But  has  not  that  been 
tried?  Has  it  not  proved  to  be  ineffectual  and  uneco- 
nomical? Why  not  at  least  try  the  other? 


Donald  Lowrie  89 

I  do  not  mean  that  prisons  should  be  "pleasure  resorts," 
but  I  do  mean  that  they  should  be  constructive — morally 
and  physically — rather  than  destructive  and  demoraliz- 
ing. 

Remember,  there  is  a  permanent  prison  population  of 
more  than  3,000  in  the  State  of  California. 

Three  thousand  boys  now  in  short  trousers  are  des- 
tined to  spend  years  of  their  lives  behind  prison  walls. 

One  of  these  boys  may  be  yours. 

A  terrible  thought,  but  they  have  to  be  somebody's 
boys. 

May  no  boy,  born  or  unborn,  ever  experience  impris- 
onment as  it  is  to-day.  It  is  neither  just  nor  logical  that 
he  should.  It  is  appalling  to  think  that  he  may. 

On  Sundays  and  holidays  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin 
are  permitted  to  congregate  in  the  "yard,"  which  is  the 
narrow  space  surrounding  the  cell  buildings  and  hemmed 
in  by  the  prison  walls.  This  space  is  much  too  small  for 
the  number  of  men,  and  when  the  total  population  is  as- 
sembled there  it  looks  very  much  like  a  cattle  pen.  All  day 
long  the  prisoners  mill  in  and  out  and  wander  listlessly 
from  one  place  to  another.  There  is  not  sufficient  room 
to  walk  in  a  straight  line.  Some  pass  the  time  playing 
chess  or  "Chinee  dominoes";  others  read,  a  few  study. 
There  are  no  benches.  True,  there  are  boards  extending 
between  the  posts  of  the  shed,  but  these  are  inadequate; 
they  will  not  accommodate  more  than  a  hundred  men. 
One  must  either  walk  all  day,  jostled  on  every  side  by 
others,  or  else  sit  down  on  the  asphaltum. 

A  few  find  seats  on  the  iron  stairways  leading  up  to  the 
cell  tiers,  but  are  not  permitted  to  go  beyond  the  fourth 
or  fifth  step. 

Quite  a  number  spread  their  coats,  or  pieces  of  paper, 
on  the  asphaltum  and  go  to  sleep  in  the  sun — in  summer. 

But  this  must  not  be  taken  as  a  criticism  of  the  prison 


90  My  Life  in  Prison 

management.  There  are  many  prisons  where  the  men 
never  get  out  of  doors,  where  they  are  not  permitted  to 
congregate  under  any  circumstances. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  percentage  of  recidi- 
vism is  just  as  great  in  these  prisons  as  it  is  in  San  Quen- 
tin  and  Folsom.  Solitary  confinement  does  not  tend  to 
make  men  better.  I  believe  the  congregate  system  does. 
Under  the  congregate  system  the  individual  prisoner  has 
more  choice,  and  the  ability  to  choose  rightly  is  the  only 
true  indication  of  character.  When  this  right  of  choice 
is  taken  away  there  is  nothing  left ;  the  prisoner  becomes 
a  mere  animal. 

The  fact  that  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin  are  per- 
mitted to  spend  Sunday,  until  3  o'clock,  in  the  open  air 
is  a  fine  thing.  It  is  a  humane  privilege  and  one  which  it 
would  seem  querulous  for  me  to  criticise  adversely. 

But  I  am  trying  to  present  what  I  felt  and  what  thou- 
sands of  others  feel. 

At  first  the  new  prisoner,  freed  from  the  odious  confine- 
ment of  the  county  jail,  finds  the  yard  at  San  Quentin 
very  refreshing.  In  a  few  weeks,  however,  it  begins  to 
pall.  Then  it  becomes  irksome.  Finally  it  is  maddening. 

After  a  year  of  imprisonment  he  dreads  Sunday  and 
the  yard  and  retires  to  the  seclusion  of  his  cell  whenever 
he  can  get  permission  to  do  so. 

To  the  casual  visitor  passing  through  San  Quentin  tHe 
yard  seems  to  be  a  splendid  thing,  but  to  the  average  man 
confined  there  it  is  hell.  There  is  no  privacy,  either  from 
his  fellows  or  from  the  guards. 

As  the  day  advances  the  asphaltum  becomes  filthy  with 
tobacco  and  cough  expectorations.  On  warm  days  a  fetid 
mist  arises,  sickening  to  the  senses,  menacing  to  the  lungs. 

I  never  spent  a  Sunday  in  the  yard  at  San  Quentin 
without  getting  a  severe  headache.  Three  o'clock  was  al- 


Donald  Lowrie  91 

ways  welcome.     I  preferred  the  close,  ill-ventilated  cell. 
It  was  merely  a  choice  between  two  evils. 

In  winter,  during  the  rainy  season,  it  is  even  worse. 
When  it  rains  on  Sunday  the  men  go  to  their  cells  im- 
mediately after  breakfast,  but  when  it  rains  on  Saturday 
afternoon  it  means  a  wetting. 

The  mill  .closes  at  2:30  on  Saturday  afternoon  to  en- 
able the  prisoners  to  draw  books  from  the  prison  library 
and  whatever  clothing  may  be  due  them. 

Supper  is  at  4 :30.  If  it  be  raining  the  great  maj  ority 
are  obliged  to  remain  in  the  yard  and  wait  patiently  for 
lock-up.  I  recall  one  Saturday  afternoon  soon  after  I 
entered  the  prison.  We  came  up  from  the  mill  in  single 
file,  compelled  to  walk  slowly.  The  rain  was  descending 
in  torrents. 

Arrived  at  the  yard,  we  crowded  under  the  sheds, 
crowded  together  so  closely  that  there  was  not  room  to 
turn  around.  It  was  a  windy  rain  and  great  sheets  of 
water  whipped  in  under  the  shed. 

I  had  been  one  of  the  last  to  arrive  from  the  mill  and 
was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  There  was  no  escape 
from  the  rain.  It  soaked  me  to  the  waist. 

After  supper,  on  getting  to  my  cell,  I  found  the  "Kid" 
and  Spaghetti  had  suffered  the  same  experience.  The 
cell  was  dark,  cold  and  damp.  The  only  warmth  we  could 
obtain  was  from  the  coal  oil  lamp.  We  had  no  way  to 
dry  our  clothing,  and  no  change. 

Prisoners  are  limited  to  one  suit  of  clothes.  It  is  an 
offence,  punishable  by  "loss  of  privileges,"  to  have  extra 
clothing,  and  now  that  the  laundered  underwear  is  no  lon- 
ger delivered  at  the  cells  there  is  no  possibility  of  putting 
on  dry  undergarments.  There  remained  but  one  thing 
for  us  to  do.  We  went  to  bed. 

I  know  men  in  San  Quentin  who  have  never  been  near 
a  fire  since  their  imprisonment  began.  This  is  especially 


92  My  Life  In  Prison 

-* 

hard  in  winter.  The  only  time  one  is  comfortable  is  while 
at  work  in  the  mill.  Some  men  are  more  thin-blooded  than 
others  and  suffer  from  the  cold  even  in  bed. 

The  bed  clothing  consists  of  two  and  one-half  pairs  of 
blankets;  no  sheets,  no  pillow.  Some  one  discovered  that 
paper  makes  a  warm  protection.  Many  men  sew  paper 
between  their  blankets  during  the  winter  months.  Of 
course,  this  prevents  their  shaking  out  the  blankets,  and 
the  covering  stays  on  the  bed  for  several  months  without 
airing.  That  is  when  the  bedbugs  revel. 

Friday  is  the  day  on  which  one  is  permitted  to  hang 
blankets  on  the  railings  along  the  tiers.  But  in  winter 
very  few  blankets  are  hung  out.  It  is  either  raining  or 
else  the  paper  quilting  is  considered  of  more  consequence 
than  an  airing. 

On  rainy  days  in  winter  the  "hill  gang"  are  obliged  to 
stay  in  their  cells. 

The  allotment  of  oil  is  one  pint  to  each  cell,  with  an 
extra  portion  during  the  longer  winter  nights.  This  sup- 
ply of  oil  is  inadequate.  One  is  obliged  to  nurse  the  oil 
in  order  to  make  it  last  the  prescribed  time. 

We  used  to  do  without  a  light  until  6  o'clock  on  week 
'days  and  until  7  or  8  o'clock  on  Sundays.  If  no  one 
were  reading  we  always  kept  the  lamp  turned  low  so  that 
it  would  not  consume  so  much  oil. 

Quite  a  number  of  the  men  trade  for  extra  oil.  By 
parting  with  a  couple  of  sacks  of  tobacco  we  used  to  get 
an  extra  pint  of  oil  occasionally.  This  means  that  some 
one  had  to  steal  it.  And  to  be  caught  trading  is  followed 
by  punishment.  It  is  rather  hard  to  be  punished  for  try- 
ing to  keep  normally  comfortable. 

After  we  had  gone  to  bed  that  Saturday  evening  Smoky 
proceeded  to  dry  'our  clothes.  He  rigged  up  a  line  so 
that  it  passed  directly  over  the  lamp,  and  then  hung  our 


Donald  Lowrie  93 

garments  there,  a  piece  at  a  time,  first  wringing  out  all 
the  water  he  could. 

At  9  o'clock  he  was  still  busy  and  did  not  hear  taps. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  night  sergeant  poked  his  bull's- 
eye  up  to  our  wicket. 

"What  you  doin'  with  that  light  burnin'?"  he  asked. 

"Has  the  bugle  blown?"  asked  Smoky. 

"Oh,  you  know  it's  blown  well  enough.  Put  out  that 
light.  This  is  the  third  time  I've  called  you  fellers  down 
for  burnin'  your  light  after  taps,  and  it's  the  last  time." 

Smoky  extinguished  the  lamp  and  undressed  in  the  darlc. 

"That  means  we  lose  our  lamp  f'r  a  month,"  he  growled. 

Sure  enough,  on  returning  to  the  cell  next  afternoon 
(Sunday)  at  3  o'clock  the  lamp  was  gone.  That  was  the 
rule. 

"D'y'r  feel  like  takin'  a  chance,  fellers?"  Smoky  in- 
quired, after  he  had  finished  cursing.  "If  y'r  do  I'll  rustle 
another  lamp  an'  fool  these  people." 

We  all  agreed  that  we  were  willing  to  take  the  chance. 

"It  means  th'  hole  if  that  night  man  ketches  us  with  it," 
Smoky  warned. 

"To  hell  with  the  hole,"  I  exploded;  "let's  have  the 
lamp  if  you  can  get  one." 

The  next  night  Smoky  brought  in  a  coal  oil  lamp  un- 
der his  coat,  chimney  and  all.  It  cost  him  ten  sacks  of 
tobacco  to  get  it,  and  we  each  assumed  part  of  the  ex- 
pense. During  the  month  that  followed  we  kept  a  clotH 
hanging  over  the  wicket  whenever  we  had  the  lamp  burn- 
ing. 

About  six  months  after  I  entered  prison  I  witnessed  a 
murder.  I  am  averse  to  the  recounting  of  an  event  of  that 
kind  because  so  many  persons  imagine  convicts  are  vicious 
and  murderous  by  nature. 

I  did  not  find  them  so,  although  during  the  first  few 
years  of  my  prison  experience  I  saw  a  number  of  as- 


94  My  Life  in  Prison 

saults,  and  two  or  three  murders  occurred,  but  these  were 
idue  chiefly  to  "dope." 

True,  there  have  been  murders  and  assults  in  recen? 
years,  but  not  to  a  greater  extent  than  occurs  In  any  lo- 
cality— certainly  not  to  a  greater  extent  than  is  the  case 
where  2,000  men  are  together,  without  the  sweet  presence 
and  leavening  influence  of  women — as  in  the  army  and 
navy. 

Detractors  may  call  this  sentiment,  but  it  is  an  inter- 
esting and  important  aspect  of  imprisonment  and  one 
which  I  hope  to  amplify  before  I  finish.  Men  become 
abnormal  under  such  conditions  and  tend  to  manifest  their 
worst  proclivities.  I  think  the  poet  must  have  had  the 
absence  of  women  in  mind  when  he  wrote: 

"The  vilest  deeds,  like  poison  weeds, 

Bloom  well  in  prison  air; 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 
That  wastes  and  withers  there." 

But  the  murder  of  "Jerry" — I  never  learned  his  full 
name — presented  so  many  of  the  details  of  prison  life 
that  it  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  me,  aside  from 
horror. 

Jerry  worked  in  the  "cophouse"  in  the  jute  mill.  He 
was  tally  man  there.  The  "cops"  are  the  weft  of  the  bur- 
lap made  by  the  weavers,  and  the  men  who  make  the  "cops" 
have  a  regular  daily  task,  so  many  boxes  of  "cops"  for 
each  man.  As  a  "copwinder"  finishes  a  box  of  "cops" 
he  takes  them  to  the  "cophouse"  and  gets  credit  for  the 
box. 

Miller,  the  man  who  killed  Jerry,  worked  on  the  "cop- 
winders,"  and  in  some  way  had  aroused  the  deadly  en- 
mity of  the  "con  boss"  of  his  section.  This  "con  boss" 
was  a  mulatto,  Thompson  by  name. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  trouble  was  between  them,  but 


Donald  Lowrie  95 

the  mulatto  took  advantage  of  his  "authority"  to  "rut) 
it  into"  Miller.  This  mulatto  was  very  generally  disliked 
by  the  men. 

Jerry,  however,  had  always  been  considered  a  "square 
guy,"  and  it  was  a  mystery  that  he  should  have  permit- 
ted himself  to  be  drawn  into  the  scheme  which  the  mulatto 
concocted — no  less  than  a  plan  to  rob  Miller  of  his  task. 

The  first  day  that  Jerry  failed  to  tally  on  the  task  cor- 
rectly Miller  though  it  was  a  mistake,  and  returned  to 
his  frame  and  did  the  extra  work  without  further  pro- 
test. But  when  a  shortage  occurred  a  second  and  third 
time  he  became  suspicious. 

By  watching  closely  and  by  having  a  friend  keep  tally 
of  his  task  with  him  as  he  delivered  the  boxes  of  "cops" 
at  the  window  during  the  day  he  satisfied  himself  that  he 
was  being  "jobbed."  He  also  observed  the  mulatto  and 
Jerry  in  consultation  on  several  occasions,  and  he  was 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  conspiring  against 
him. 

In  the  presence  of  witnesses  Miller  accused  the  mulatto 
and  Jerry  of  "pinching"  his  task,  and  told  them  it  would 
have  to  stop,  and  stop  at  once. 

"If  it  don't  stop  I'll  kill  you  both,"  he  said.  "This  is 
no  bluff.  I'll  put  you  both  in  the  morgue  as  sure  as  I'm 
a  foot  high." 

Despite  this  warning  the  "pinching"  of  Miller's  task 
continued. 

Then  came  the  tragedy. 

I  was  working  at  my  loom  one  morning  when  I  noticed 
a  commotion  at  the  "cophouse"  window.  Two  or  three 
weavers  who  had  gone  there  for  "cops"  came  running  away 
with  white  faces. 

An  instant  later  the  half-door  opened  and  Jerry  stag- 
gered out. 

Never  so  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forget  the  look  of  unut- 


96  My  Life  in  Prison 

terable  despair  on  his  face.  His  eyes  were  starting  from 
their  sockets  and  his  mouth  was  opening  and  closing  spas- 
modically. 

He  may  have  been  screaming,  but  the  roar  of  the  ma- 
chinery prevented  my  hearing.  His  hands  were  held 
against  his  abdomen,  and  I  looked  there.  I  saw  a  ghastly 

mass  of  red .  He  swayed  a  moment  and  then  started 

to  run. 

Like  a  mortally  wounded  animal,  he  half  staggered,  half 
flung  his  gaping  body  forward  to  the  loom  section,  twist- 
ing and  turning  between  the  machinery  blindly,  until  a 
•whirling  belt  caught  him  as  he  staggered  and  flung  him 
backward  and  down — a  crumpled  corpse.  He  had  trav- 
elled nearly  half  the  length  of  the  mill  before  he  fell. 

Too  horrified  to  move  or  think,  I  remained  rigid,  as 
clid  all  the  weavers  about  me,  and  then  my  eyes  turned  to 
the  "cophouse." 

Miller  had  emerged  and  was  standing  in  the  open  space 
between  the  "cophouse"  and  the  looms,  a  long,  bloody  knife 
in  his  hand,  his  lips  curled  back  from  his  teeth,  a  murder- 
ous glare  in  his  eyes. 

No  one  dared  approach  him  closely.  Gradually  a  ring 
formed  about  him — a  ring  of  guards  and  prisoners — but 
he  did  not  move;  he  just  stood  there  glaring. 

I  have  always  felt  that  he  was  insane  at  that  moment. 

And  then  occurred  one  of  the  nerviest  acts  I  have  ever 
witnessed.  A  tall,  young  guard — I  wish  I  could  remem- 
ber his  name — suddenly  stepped  into  the  ring  and  ap- 
proached Miller.  As  he  drew  near  the  infuriated  man  he 
threw  down  his  cane  and  extended  his  hand  for  the  knife, 
still  approaching. 

There  was  a  moment  of  frightful  intensity,  as  Miller 
turned  his  bloodshot  eyes  upon  the  guard,  but  the  officer 
never  wavered.  He  walked  right  up,  reached  down  and 
leisurely  loosened  Miller's  unresisting  fingers  from  the 


Donald  Lowrie  97 

knife  handle.  As  soon  as  he  had  possession  of  the  weapon 
he  took  Miller  by  the  arm.  Then  the  other  guards  rushed 
in. 

After  it  was  all  over  there  was  a  deal  of  excitement. 
At  noon  I  learned  the  full  details.  Miller  had  first 
struck  down  the  mulatto  with  an  iron  weight,  fracturing 
his  skull,  and  had  then  sprung  through  the  "cophouse" 
window  and  slashed  Jerry  with  the  knife. 

The  mulatto  finally  recovered,  but  was  never  again  per- 
mitted to  mingle  with  the  other  prisoners.  The  feeling 
in  the  prison  was  very  strong  against  him,  for  everyone 
believed  he  was  responsible  for  the  tragedy. 

He  was  assigned  to  work  in  the  vegetable  garden  out- 
side the  walls,  and  was  never  permitted  to  enter  the  yard 
while  the  men  were  there,  being  locked  in  his  cell  after  the 
others  were  in. 

A  number  of  men  cognizant  of  all  these  facts  petitioned 
the  warden  for  the  privilege  of  taking  up  a  subscription 
for  Miller's  defence,  which  was  granted. 

At  the  trial,  however,  it  was  brought  out  that  Miller 
was  serving  sentence  for  manslaughter  when  he  killed  Jer- 
ry; also  that  he  had  threatened  to  kill  the  deceased,  and 
the  jury  found  him  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree, 
without  recommendation. 

He  was  sentenced  to  death  and  was  hanged  at  Folsom 
a  few  months  later. 


CHAPTER  IX 

During  the  past  twelve  years,  there  has  not  been  one 
permanent  escape  from  San  Quentin.  Many  attempts 
have  been  made,  and  a  number  of  men  have  got  off  the 
reservation  and  been  gone  a  few  hours,  days  or  weeks,  but 
they  have  all  been  apprehended  and  brought  back.  When 
I  arrived  at  San  Quentin,  and  for  some  time  afterward, 
it  was  the  custom  to  put  a  red  shirt  on  a  man  who  tried  to 
escape,  and  there  were  several  such  men  in  the  yard  dur- 
ing the  first  few  months  of  my  imprisonment.  I  became 
especially  interested  in  two  lifers  who  had  attempted  to 
escape  several  months  before.  Both  were  thin,  nervous 
individuals,  nearing  middle  age,  and  I  always  felt  sorry 
that  their  bid  for  freedom  had  not  been  successful.  I 
learned  to  know  them  very  well,  and  gathered  all  the  facts. 
For  obvious  reasons  I  shall  not  use  their  names,  but  will 
designate  them  as  H and  J . 

At  the  time  of  the  attempted  escape  H —  and  J —  were 
employed  as  nurses  in  the  "old  hospital,"  a  building  erec- 
ted in  1859,  the  second  floor  of  which  is  used  as  a  ward 
for  consumptives  and  other  incurables.  This  building  is 
aHout  thirty  feet  from  the  north  wall  of  the  prison. 

98 


Donald  Lowrie  99 

Working  cautiously  night  after  night  H —  and  J — 
cut  their  way  through  the  ceiling  and  made  an  egress  to 
the  roof.  At  that  time  there  were  no  electric  towers  on 
the  prison,  and  this  roof  was  obscure. 

The  night  watch  at  San  Quentin  is  distributed  about  the 
prison  yard,  inside  the  walls,  occupying  little  guard  posts 
provided  for  their  protection  from  the  elements  in  inclem- 
ent weather.  There  are  eight  of  these  posts,  and  each 
guard  is  armed  with  a  revolver  and  double-barrelled  shot- 
gun. 

It  is  only  after  lock-up  that  firearms  are  permitted  in- 
side the  walls,  and  the  bell  never  rings  in  the  morning 
until  all  the  firearms  are  back  in  the  armory  and  accounted 
for.  The  day  watch,  also  armed,  is  posted  on  the  walls, 
and  in  the  six  gatling-gun  towers  surrounding  and  com- 
manding the  prison  on  every  side. 

The  reason  why  the  day  guards  on  duty  inside  the  walls 
are  not  permitted  to  carry  arms  is  that  they  might  be 
overpowered  and  deprived  of  them,  which  would  make  pos- 
sible the  shooting  of  the  wall  guards  and  the  men  in  the 
gatling-gun  towers  and  a  general  delivery  of  the  prison. 
For  subduing  refractory  prisoners  and  for  self-protection 
the  day  guards  carry  canes  loaded  at  one  end  with  lead. 
A  single  blow  from  one  of  these  canes  usually  renders  a 
man  insensible. 

Beginning  at  9  o'clock,  at  which  hour  taps  is  sounded 
and  all  cell  lights,  save  condemned  row,  are  extinguished, 
the  night  guards  call  the  hours,  "Nine  o'clock  and  all's 
well,"  "Ten  o'clock  and  all's  well,"  and  so  until  five  in 
the  morning.  Starting  at  No.  1  post,  near  the  main  en- 
trance, the  call  is  close  and  blatant,  and  then  it  is  caught 
up  by  each  successive  guard  and  repeated  until  it  reaches 
the  man  in  No.  8  post,  down  near  the  jute  mill. 

It  is  a  never-to-be-forgotten  experience  to  hear  these 
calls.  From  No.  1  the  cry  goes  from  one  man  to  another, 


100  My  Life  in  Prison 

growing  fainter  with  each  repetition,  until  the  cry  of  No. 
8  is  heard  far,  far  away,  like  a  voice  from  another  world. 

The  hourly  call  assures  the  night  sergeant  that  all  his 
guards  are  awake  and  on  the  watch. 

Also,  immediately  after  lock-up  the  rope  attached  to 
the  prison  bell  over  the  main  entrance  is  dropped  so  that 
the  end  dangles  a  few  feet  from  No.  1  post.  In  the 
event  of  fire,  or  a  "break,"  the  alarm  is  sounded  by  ring- 
ing this  bell,  bringing  the  day  guards  to  the  scene.  Near- 
ly all  the  guards  live  on  the  prison  reservation,  which  they 
are  not  permitted  to  leave,  even  when  off  duty,  without 
first  getting  permission  and  "signing  off." 

Night  post  No.  5  is  between  the  "old  hospital"  and  the 

north  wall,  and  in  order  to  reach  the  wall  H and 

J were  obliged  to  pass  directly  over  it,  and  within 

a  few  feet  of  the  guard  on  duty  there.  On  the  night  of 
the  escape  they  awaited  the  &  o'clock  call  and  then  began 
operations. 

First,  they  tossed  an  improvised  rope — made  from  jute 
fiHre — over  the  wall,  thirty  feet  distant. 

There  was  an  iron  hook,  padded  with  scraps  of  blan- 
ket, attached  to  this  rope,  and  it  went  over  the  wall  with 
the  first  throw,  the  pads  preventing  the  hook  from  mak- 
ing any  noise  when  it  struck  against  the  side  of  the  wall 
outside. 

By  drawing  the  rope  back  slowly  the  hook  was  brought 
up,  and  caught  on  the  hand-railing  that  runs  along  the  top 
of  the  wall  as  a  safeguard  for  the  men  who  patrol  it  dur- 
ing the  day. 

As  soon  as  the  hook  caught  on  this  railing  the  men 
on  the  roof  drew  the  rope  taut  and  fastened  their  end 
aEout  one  of  the  chimneys,  establishing  a  line  between  the 
roof  and  the  top  of  the  wall. 

Dangling  forty  feet  above  the  ground  J swung  him- 
self along  the  rope,  hand  over  hand.  He  reached  the 


Donald  Lowrie  101 

wall  without  being  seen  and  at  once  threw  himself  flat 

on  his  stomach  to  await  his  partner.  H immediately 

followed.  Looking  down  as  he  swung  along  he  saw  the 
dim  outline  of  the  guard  directly  beneath  him,  the  glint 
of  his  gun  barrel  plainly  discernible  in  the  rays  thrown 
by  a  gas  lamp  some  distance  away.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  the  guard  should  not  be  attracted  by  the  swaying 
figure  so  close  above  him,  but  he  was  humming  a  popular 
tune  as  he  walked  back  and  forth,  and  neither  saw  nor 
heard  anything. 

As  H drew  close  to  the  wall  J whispered  a 

tense  warning. 

The  outside  watch  was  approaching  along  the  wall. 
Each  hour  during  the  night  a  guard  makes  the  rounds  of 
the  prison  walls  on  watch  for  any  plan  of  external  help 
toward  escape  of  those  within,  and  also  to  prevent  dis- 
charged prisoners  from  returning  and  tossing  contraband 
articles  or  messages  into  the  prison  enclosures.  Such 
things  have  been  done  in  the  past. 

H was  obliged  to  remain  suspended  until  the  out- 
side guard  had  passed,  and  then  he  and  J fastened 

another  rope  to  the  handrailing  and  slid  to  the  ground, 
free! 

But  their  freedom  was  destined  to  be  short.  Almost  as 
they  touched  the  ground  a  small  dog  came  trotting  out 
of  the  gloom  and  spied  them.  In  spite  of  their  whispered 
coaxing  it  refused  to  help,  and  barked  shrilly. 

Realizing  that  its  tone  would  convey  warning,  H 

and  J did  not  wait  to  pull  down  the  rope  by  which 

they  had  descended,  but  ran  for  the  obscurity  of  the  field 
across  the  road. 

The  guard  who  had  passed  the  spot  a  moment  before, 
attracted  by  the  barking  of  his  dog — which,  unfortu- 
nately for  H and  J ,  had  lingered  behind  its  mas- 
ter— turned  and  came  back.  He  discovered  the  dangling 


102  My  Life  in  Prison 

'"'* 

rope  and  fired  his  revolver  to  give  the  alarm.  Then,  guided 

by  the  dog,  he  took  up  the  trail  of  the  fugitives.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  sighted  them  and  commanded  them  to 
halt.  They  paid  no  heed  to  the  command,  but  kept  on, 
running  toward  the  hills.  The  guard  raised  his  shotgun 

and  fired,  hitting  H in  the  legs  and  bringing  him 

down,  but  J was  not  hit,  and  disappeared  in  the  night. 

By  this  time  the  alarm  bell  was  ringing  and  guards  were 
running  from  all  directions.  Several  posses  were  imme- 
idiately  formed  and  set  put  to  overtake  J . 

After  running  up  the  hillside  until  he  was  exhausted 

J stopped  to  rest,  secreting  himself  in  some  bushes. 

A  few  minutes  later  one  of  the  posses  passed  close  to  the 
spot.  They  did  not  discover  him,  and  were  going  on 

when  a  cow  lying  close  by,  and  which  J had  not  seen, 

took  fright  at  the  striking  of  a  match  with  which  one 
of  the  guards  stopped  to  light  his  pipe,  and  jumped  up. 
This  attracted  the  attention  of  the  posse  and  they  came 
back. 

J saw  that  he  was  about  to  be  discovered  and  tried 

to  crawl  off,  but  they  saw  him  and  caught  him  before  he 
could  get  to  his  feet  and  run. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  four-legged  animals  we'd  a  made 

it,"  J complained  to  me  one  day  in  the  yard  a  year 

later.  "It  just  seemed  as  if  fate  was  against  us.  It  was 
a  clean  getaway  for  both  of  us  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
dog,  and  a  good  chance  for  me,  even  with  the  dog,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  cow.  I've  always  liked  dogs — liked 
them  all  mv  life — but  now  I  don't  know.  That  dog  may 
mean  that  I'll  die  here.  I'm  certainly  up  against  it  pretty 
hard,  doin'  life,  and  a  charge  of  escape  against  my 
record." 

His  face,  seared  with  deep  lines  of  care,  assumed  an 
expression  of  despair,  and  he  stared  stolidly  at  the  wall 
before  us. 


Donald  Lowrie  103 

"And  poor  H '11  never  be  the  same  man  again,"  he 

continued.  "They  dug  that  buckshot  out  of  his  legs  with- 
out giving  him  anything,  and  joked  about  it  when  they 
were  doing  it — just  strapped  him  on  the  table  like  a  piece 
of  meat  and  cut  'em  out.  But  there's  one  satisfaction. 

H wouldn't  holler.  The  doctor  tried  to  make  him 

beg,  tried  to  make  him  moan,  but  he  never  made  a  sound. 
Just  gritted  his  teeth  together  and  never  winced.  Of 
course,  that  kind  of  a  deal  made  him  awful  sore.  He'll 
never  get  over  it.  It  was  certainly  rubbing  it  in,  for  God 
knows  a  man's  got  the  right  to  escape  from  this  kind  of  a 
life  if  he  can. 

"Of  course,  a  man  knows  the  penalty,  but  after  shoot- 
ing H down  it  wasn't  square,  it  wasn't  human  to  dig 

that  shot  out  of  him  like  that." 

Several  years  later,  by  good  conduct  and  excellent  serv- 
ice to  the  State  both  J and  H earned  and  were 

granted  parole  and  both  have  "made  good."  Determina- 
tion and  grit  are  characteristics  that  may  count  in  the 
fight  to  "make  good,"  just  as  much  as  in  any  other  way. 

We  were  assembled  in  the  yard,  just  before  lock-up, 
one  Sunday,  waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring,  which  would  per- 
mit our  going  to  the  cells,  when  one  of  the  prisoners 
stepped  over  the  "dead-line"  and  ran  through  the  gate 
into  the  flower  garden. 

The  guard  stationed  at  the  gate  tried  to  stop  him,  as 
did  his  "con"  assistant,  but  the  running  man  brushed 
them  aside  and  kept  on.  This  attracted  everyone's  atten- 
tion, making  what  ensued  all  the  more  spectacular  and 
tragic. 

Running  to  the  broad  stairway  leading  down  to  the 
lower  yard,  the  prisoner  disappeared,  followed  by  the 
gudrd  and  his  assistant.  We  all  began  speculating  on 
what  the  runaway  had  in  mind,  what  he  intended  doing. 

"He's  gone  bugs,"  asserted  one  man  near  me. 


104  My  Life  in  Prison 

"No,  he's  goin'  down  to  'get*  some  waiter  what's  given 
him  a  dirty  deal  in  the  dinin'-room,"  said  another. 
}  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry,  "There  he  goes !"  and  we  all 
.turned.  The  fugitive  was  running  up  the  steps  of  the 
>old  sash  and  blind  building,  two  steps  at  a  time,  with 
three  guards,  two  of  whom  joined  in  the  chase  from  the 
dining-room,  in  close  pursuit. 

•  The  stairway  of  the  old  sash  and  blind  factory  is  on 
the  outside  of  the  building  and  in  plain  view  from  the 
yard.    To  the  first  landing,  the  second,  the  third  and  then 
to  the  top  rushed  the  escape  without  pausing. 

I  noted  a  package  held  under  his  arm — a  package  of 
lunch.  Prisoners  are  permitted  to  carry  a  lunch  from 
the  dining-room  on  Sundays  and  holidays  because  there 
is  no  supper  served  on  those  days,  breakfast  being  at  7 
a.  m.  and  dinner  at  &  p.  m. 

Arrived  at  the  top  landing,  the  fugitive  paused  and 
looked  over.  Then  he  glanced  swiftly  behind  him.  The 
guards  were  close,  already  reaching  to  grab  him.  He 
laughed  shrilly  and  then  deliberately  toppled  his  body 
over  the  low  railing.  He  seemed  to  hang  suspended  in 
space  for  a  moment,  and  then  shot  downward  with  fright- 
ful velocity. 

"  A  groan  arose  from  a  thousand  throats.  The  falling 
Eody  turned  completely  over  in  mid-air,  and  the  package 
of  lunch  slipped  away. 

!  The  groan  died  away  almost  instantly,  and  there  was 
a  hushed  moment  when  we  all  seemed  to  cease  breathing. 
The  falling  body  struck  the  brick  pavement  with  a  kind 
of  whack — a  combined  thud  and  crack  that  was  awful. 

Every  man  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  just  at  that  mo- 
ment the  lock-up  bell  began  to  ring. 

It  makes  no  difference  what  occurs,  the  lock-up  bell  al- 
ways rings  at  the  precise  time. 

•  With  awed  faces,  and  in  silence,  we  made  our  way  to 


Donald  Lowrie  105 

our  respective  cells.  Smoky  arrived  after  I  did,  and  im- 
mediately asked  if  I  had  witnessed  the  suicide. 

"Yes.    Who  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know  his  name,"  replied  Smoky,  "but  I  know 
him  by  sight.  He  works  on  a  breakin'  carder  an'  he's  doin' 
seven  years.  I  always  noticed  he  was  kind  o'  quiet  like, 
an'  queer,  but  I  never  thought  he'd  go  th'  Dutch  route. 
Still,  y'r  can  never  tell.  I've  seen  some  pretty  good  men 
go  that  way — do  it  all  of  a  sudden.  Chances  are  this 
guy  didn't  know  he  was  goin'  until  five  minutes  ago.  I 
noticed  he  had  a  lump  (lunch)  with  him." 

That  night  while  he  was  preparing  our  "hash"  over 
the  lamp,  with  Spaghetti  stationed  at  the  wicket  as  look- 
out, Smoky  again  referred  to  the  suicide. 

I  had  asked  a  passing  "runner"  if  the  man  were  dead, 
and  learned  that  he  had  died  in  the  hospital  an  hour  after 
they  picked  him  up. 

"The  best  suicide  I've  ever  seen  here,"  said  Smoky, 
"was  about  ten  years  ago.  They  brought  a  high-toned 
feller  in  t'  do  a  ten  spot.  He  was  a  doctor,  I  think,  an* 
killed  some  gal  operatin'  on  her.  As  soon  as  he  stepped 
inside  th'  big  gate  he  jus'  took  one  look  around  an'  then 
put  somethin'  into  his  mouth. 

"It  must  'a'  been  morphine,  er  somethin'  like  that,  f'r 
it  didn't  feaze  him  at  first,  but  while  he  was  in  th'  bath- 
tub takin'  his  bath  th'  chink  stepped  out  a  minute  t'  get 
somethin'  an'  when  he  came  back  th'  new  guy  was  clean 
out.  He'd  slipped  down  in  th'  tub  an'  his  head  was  under 
water.  Th'  chink  gave  th'  alarm  an'  they  tried  hard  t' 
save  him,  but  he  croaked  that  night.  It  didn't  take  him 
long  t'  do  his  ten  years." 

While  telling  this  story  Smoky  had  assembled  our 
"lumps"  and  had  produced  some  grease  and  an  onion  from 
the  cavernous  depths  of  his  "commissary"  pocket.  With 


106  My  Life  in  Prison 

a  pair  of  loom  scissors  he  cut  up  the  meat  and  potatoes 
and  the  onion. 

The  receptacle  into  which  he  dropped  the  pieces  was  an 
extra  wash  basin  which  we  kept  concealed  under  one  of 
the  bunks  for  cooking  purposes  only. 

When  all  was  ready  he  seasoned  the  mess  with  pepper 
and  salt,  added  a  little  water  and  grease,  and  then  set 
the  pan  on  top  of  the  lamp  chimney,  first  inserting  a 
specially  made  bracket  to  permit  the  pa«sage  of  air  be- 
tween the  bottom  of  the  pan  and  the  top  of  the  chimney. 

In  a  few  minutes  an  appetizing  odor  filled  the  stuffy 
cell,  and  I  could  tell  by  the  actions  of  my  other  cellmates, 
as  well  as  by  my  own  yearning,  that  they  were  hungry  and 
hardly  able  to  wait  for  results. 

It  is  strictly  against  the  rules  to  cook  in  the  cells,  but 
We  used  to  make  "hash"  or  a  "mulligan"  each  Sunday 
night.  The  guards  in  charge  of  the  cell  buildings  spend 
a  good  portion  of  their  time  during  week  days  searching 
the  cells,  hunting  for  contraband  articles. 

Anything  that  looks  like  a  cooking  utensil  is  invariably 
confiscated,  and  at  one  time  it  became  so  hard  to  keep  a 
pan  in  the  cell  for  that  purpose  that  mnnv  of  the  men 
resorted  to  using  their  wash  basin,  waiting  until  they  got 
to  the  mill  before  washing  in  the  mom^cr. 

But  after  each  "home-cooked"  meal  it  was  necessary  to 
pcour  the  basin  in  order  to  remove  the  evidence  of  its 
having  been  used  for  cooking.  Finally  this  ^heme  was 
disclosed,  and  to  stop  it  an  order  was  issued  that  all  wash 
basins  be  painted.  After  that  there  was  very  little  cook- 
in»  done  in  the  cells. 

But  a  few  years  jigo  it  was  quite  common.  Bv  saving 
our  meat  and  Potatoes  at  Sunday  'dinner,  and  bv  trading 
for  an  oriinn  nr/1  for  rrreas^.  we  were  alwiv<;  «V»lo  to  have 
sufficient  ingredients  to  make  a  very  creditable  concoc- 
tion on  Sunday  night,  and  I  always  enjoye'd  the  "home 


Donald  Lowrie  107 

cooking,"  as  Smoky  called  it,  better  than  anything  else  I 
got  to  eat. 

Had  we  been  caught  at  it  we  should  not  only  have  lost 
our  lamp,  but  would  also  have  probably  "hit  the  hole,"  for 
that  was  the  penalty.  But  sometimes  the  night  sergeant 
would  be  generous  and  would  make  no  effort  to  catch  men 
cooking  in  the  cells;  and  then  again,  when  it  became  too 
prevalent  it  was  almost  impossible  to  avoid  being  caught 
by  him. 

Of  course,  in  passing  along  the  tiers  where  cooking 
was  in  progress  his  sense  of  smell  guided  him  directly  to 
the  cell  where  it  was  going  on. 

I  certainly  used  to  enjoy  watching  Smoky  cook.  He 
took  an  extraordinary  pride  in  getting  the  hash  done  "just 
so,"  and  I  believe  he  sometimes  took  more  time  than  was 
really  necessary,  just  to  tease  us.  I  know  we  were  al- 
ways like  a  pack  of  ravenous  wolves  when  it  was  ready, 
and  it  was  fine  to  see  the  way  the  poor  "Kid"  enjoyed  it. 

And  Smoky  would  pretend  to  eat  a  whole  lot,  merely 
that  he  might  save  and  have  enough  to  give  the  "Kid"  a 
second  helping. 

Smoky  was  what  the  world  knows  as  a  "criminal,"  but 
the  "Kid"  didn't  think  so.  Neither  did  I.  Neither  did 
anyone  else  who  knew  him  as  we  did. 


CHAPTER  X 

Although  I  had  religious  training  as  a  boy — too  much 
of  it,  perhaps — religion,  lip-religion,  the  external  Chris- 
tianity does  not  appeal  to  me  now.  I  attribute  this 
largely  to  my  experience  with  religion  in  prison. 

In  order  to  avoid  giving  undue  offence  to  the  readers 
of  this  narrative  who  believe  that  salvation  is 'only  se- 
cured by  embracing  the  faith,  attending  church  and  thank- 
ing the  Omnipotent  for  all  that  befalls  us,  whether  it  be 
good  or  evil,  I  want  to  say  that  I  do  believe  in  the  spirit 
of  religion — the  spirit  of  Christianity,  of  Buddhism,  of 
Confucianism. 

I  believe  that  a  man's  religion  is  what  he  does,  not  what 
he  says  or  professes.  I  do  not  believe  that  lip-religion 
has  a  proper  place  in  prison.  The  money  paid  for  a  week- 
ly exposition  of  the  Bible  could  be  used  to  much  better 
advantage. 

True,  such  exposition  does  benefit  some  prisoners,  ap- 
pnrontlv,  affording  them  an  avenue  of  expression  in  a  life 
of  abnormal  suppression,  but  I  found  that  nearly  all  those 
who  embraced  religion  while  in  prison  were  unreliable  and 
inclined  to  be  treacherous  and  self-righteous. 

That  is  a  scathing  denouncement,  but  I  make  it  calm- 
ly and  deliberately. 

One  of  the  dormitories  at  San  Quentin,  accommodating 
about  forty  men,  is  reserved  for  those  who  have  the  "re- 
ligious bug,'*  as  the  other  prisoners  call  it.  They  hold  a 

108 


rDonald  Lowrle^  109 


song  and  prayer  service  every  night  and  seem  to  be  honest 
and  sincere. 

It  is,  however,  a  delusion,  a  sort  of  ephemeral  ecs- 
tasy, a  subtle  expression  of  self-pity,  and  it  is  a  note- 
worthy fact  that  a  large  percentage  of  them  fail  to  "make 
good"  when  released  on  parole  or  at  the  expiration  of  sen- 
tence. And,  of  course,  many  of  them  are  hypocrites  who 
deliberately  calculate  that  the  "religious  route"  is  the 
shortest  way  out. 

It  is  difficult  to  separate  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  and 
it  is  certainly  discouraging  to  those  who  are  deceived  by 
such  men  and  have  so  many  cases  of  "backsliding"  and 
"ingratitude." 

But  before  entering  into  the  recital  of  my  personal  ex- 
periences and  observations  in  connection  with  the  prison 
chapel  and  chaplain,  I  want  to  present  a  few  facts  that 
should  be  of  interest  and  value  to  so-called  penologists  and 
criminologists. 

Nearly  every  man  committed  to  prison  for  rape,  or  for 
crime  involving  lack  of  sexual  balance,  comes  through  the 
front  gate  with  a  Bible  under  his  arm  and  is  prone  to 
break  down  and  weep  on  being  received  at  the  inner  office. 

During  the  years  I  spent  at  San  Quentin  I  always 
held  that  no  prisoner  had  a  license  to  execrate  another 
on  account  of  his  offence  against  the  law,  and  I  certainly 
do  not  want  my  present  statement  of  facts  to  be  taken 
as  an  indication  that  I  have  fallen  into  that  error. 

As  Smoky  used  to  say  whenever  some  other  prisoner 
"cut  him"  because  of  his  slang  and  uncouth  mannerisms, 
"his  stripes  ain't  a  bit  wider  than  mine." 

But  the  connection  between  the  crimes  I  have  indicated 
and  religion  is  so  marked,  and  is  so  well  known  to  the  old- 
time  prison  officials,  that  I  should  not  feel  that  I  had  pre- 
sented a  true  picture  if  I  omitted  it. 

I  got  my  initial  insight  into  these  things  on  the  occa- 


110  My  Life  in  Prison 

sion  of  my  first  attendance  at  religious  service,  which  oc- 
curred one  Sunday  during  the  winter  following  my  ar- 
rival. 

The  day  was  cold,  raw  and  foggy,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  keep  warm  in  the  yard.  The  prisoners  were  hud- 
dled together  like  cattle  in  a  storm,  and  when  the  bell 
rang  for  services  at  9  o'clock  there  was  a  regular  stampede 
to  get  into  line. 

The  "chapel"  accommodates  about  600  men,  when 
crowded,  and  possibly  500  comfortably.  The  prison  pop- 
ulation is  close  to  2,000,  hence  the  stampede  on  cgld  Sun- 
days. 

On  the  Sunday  in  question  Smoky  and  I  were  chatter- 
ing (not  chatting)  with  a  circle  of  acquaintances  when 
the  bell  rang. 

"Say,  fellers,"  exclaimed  Smoky,  "they  say  Hell  is  a 
hot  place ;  whadger  say  if  we  take  in  a  prelim'nary  round 
an'  get  a  little  heat  in  advance — a  kind  o'  credit  from  his 
Nobs  down  below  f 'r  what's  comin'  to  us  ?" 

His  way  of  putting  the  proposition  appealed  to  us,  and 
we  lined  up. 

At  that  time  the  resident  chaplain  was  the  "Rev."  Au- 
gust Drahms.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  I  can  portray 
this  man  honestly  and  fairly  without  giving  offence  to 
those  who  believe  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  should  be  ex- 
empt from  criticism.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I  am  not  at- 
tacking Christianity,  that  I  believe  in  the  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  that  I  am  consciously  striving  to  imbue  this 
narrative  with  conservatism. 

It  is  only  necesary  to  call  for  the  testimony  of  others 
who  knew  him,  either  freemen  or  prisoners,  to  substan- 
tiate what  I  am  going  to  tell.  If  the  telling  discredits  me 
with  those  who  are  satisfied  to  have  their  thinking  done 
for  them  by  others,  I  can't  help  that. 

I  have  met  many  spiritual  Christians  during  my  life — I 


Donald  Lowrie  111 

am  meeting  them  every  day — and  I  know  there  are  a  great 
many  men  and  women  in  the  world  who  have  the  capacity 
to  put  themselves  in  the  other  person's  place,  to  under- 
stand and  feel  what  the  other  person  understands  and 
feels,  but  there  is  no  sense  in  deluding  ourselves  with  the 
idea  that  every  professional  Christian  has  the  Christian 
spirit. 

The  "Reverend"  August  Drahms  certainly  did  not  have 
it.  He  stands  out  like  an  ugly  toad  on  a  marble  pave- 
ment. I  cannot  forgive  him,  and  I  honestly  believe  that 
his  influence  did  more  to  turn  men  away  from  religion  than 
any  other  element  that  has  ever  obtained  within  the  four 
walls  of  San  Quentin. 

One  needs  but  to  read  his  book,  "The  Criminal,"  to  find 
a  self-indictment  more  scathing  than  any  facts  I  can  bring 
to  bear. 

In  that  book  he  devotes  chapters  to  the  "criminal  ear, 
the  criminal  nose,  the  criminal  head."  In  one  place  he 
asserts  that  one  of  the  surest  indications  of  "criminosity" 
is  the  love  of  pets.  The  fact  that  prisoners  are  prone 
to  lavish  their  attention  upon  mice,  birds  or  cats  (dogs 
are  not  permitted),  thus  giving  expression  to  the  yearn- 
ing that  lies  latent  in  every  human  breast  and  bids  us  find 
and  love  some  one  or  some  thing  more  than  we  love  our- 
selves, he  calls  criminal. 

He  was  the  chaplain  at  San  Quentin  for  nearly  twenty 
years.  Each  warden  tried  to  oust  him,  but  couldn't  do  so 
because  he  had  been  a  chaplain  in  the  army  during  the 
Civil  War  and  there  is  a  law  on  the  California  statute 
books  inhibiting  the  discharge  of  such  a  person  from  the 
employ  of  the  State  without  a  hearing  on  written  charges. 

The  man  held  services  every  Sunday  and  seldom  left 
the  reservation.  It  remained  for  the  present  Board  of 
Prison  Directors  to  solve  the  problem,  which  they  did  by 


112  My  Life  in  Prison 

abolishing  the  position  of  "Resident  Chaplain" — one  of 
the  begt  things  they  have  done. 

if  Mr.  Drahms  used  to  lecture  in  the  smaller  towns  and 
cities  about  the  bay,  invariably  holding  that  prisoners 
were  criminals  in  all  that  the  word  implies  and  advocating 
that  they  be  reduced  to  a  still  lower  level. 
?  "Work  them !"  he  said  at  one  of  these  lectures.  "Work 
them  hard  and  work  them  long,  and  then  give  them  more 
work.  Make  them  feel  that  they  are  despicable  and  that 
they  have  no  place  in  the  established  order  of  things  and 
when  they  come  out  of  prison  rest  assured  that  they  will 
not  go  back,  for  if  there  is  anything  a  prisoner  hates  it  is 
work." 

These  are  not  his  exact  words,  but  they  convey  just 
what  he  meant.  He  had  then  been  a  prison  chaplain 
for  fifteen  years,  and  he  was  supposed  to  be  a  Christian. 
Naturally,  a  great  many  people  believed  he  knew  what 
he  was  saying  and  that  his  ideas  were  based  on  facts. 
1  Such  was  the  man  that  Smoky  and  the  rest  of  us  went 
to  hear  preach  that  cold  winter  morning  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1902, — nineteen  centuries  after  the  crucifixion 
of  Jesus  Christ  "to  save  sinners." 

;•?  Arrived  at  the  chapel,  we  found  seats  near  the  door. 
The  benches  were  straight-backed  and  hard.  I  never  had 
a  more*  uncomfortable  seat  in  my  life.  The  person  who 
planned  them  knew  very  little  about  human  anatomy. 

As  soon  as  we  were  seated  I  looked  toward  the  ros- 
trum. I  saw  a  weazened,  yellow  skinned  man  of  about 
60  years,  with  hard  features  and  wisps  of  thin,  straight 
hair  hanging  down,  giving  him  the  appearance  of  wearing 
a  wig. 

j     "That's  him,"  whispered  Smoky,  nu'dging  me  in  the  ribs, 
i  "That's  th'  celebrated  August  Drahms,  only  they  ought 
'a*  named  him  December  'stead  of  August.     If  there  was 
ever  a  human  icicle  he's  it.    Why,  he's  so  cold  he'd — " 


Donald  Lowrie  113 

Smoky  didn't  finish  the  thought,  for  the  guard  sta- 
tioned in  the  aisle  close  by  had  heard  his  voice  and  was 
endeavoring  to  locate  the  man  who  was  talking.  It  is 
against  the  rules  to  talk  in  the  chapel. 

The  men  were  still  filing  into  the  place  and  crowding 
down  the  aisles.  When  the  doors  were  finally  closed  a 
large  number  were  shut  out.  Like  a  huge  serpent  the 
line  of  striped  figures  reversed  its  motion  and  crawled 
back  to  its  hole — the  cold,  cheerless  yard.  Those  of  us 
who  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  get  in  were  compara- 
tively warm,  though  there  is  no  artificial  heat — save  a 
small  stove  in  the  corner  reserved  as  the  chaplain's  office 
— in  the  chapel.  But  in  a  few  minutes  the  packed  human 
bodies  had  emanated  enough  warmth  to  make  it  cosy  and 
we  settled  ourselves  for  the  service. 

A  middle-aged  man  with  tragic  features,  serving  life, 
arose  beside  the  wheezy  organ  (an  instrument  bought  by 
the  prisoners  themselves — the  State  makes  no  provision 
for  such  things,  not  even  for  library  books.  The  library 
is  supported  by  the  prisoners)  and  sang  "Lead,  Kindly 
Light"  quite  effectively.  His  voice  was  cracked  and 
broken,  but  it  was  very  apparent  that  he  felt  the  words 
as  he  sang  them. 

I  felt  moved.  I  was  carried  back  to  my  childhood.  I 
was  standing  beside  my  fond  mother — whom  I  shall  always 
remember  as  the  most  beautiful  young  woman  I  have  ever 
seen — and  we  were  singing  that  same  beautifully  expres- 
sive hymn  in  a  magnificent  church.  Little  had  she  or 
I  imagined  that  I  would  ever  hear  it  standing  in  a  prison 
chapel,  surrounded  by  striped  figures,  in  stripes  myself, 
and  with  no  women's  voices  in  the  chorus. 

Women  are  not  permitted  inside  the  prison  walls  under 
any  circumstances.  That  is  the  State  law,  I  believe.  \ 

When  the  singer  finished  the  verse  he  extended  his  arms 
invitingly  and  everyone  sang  together.  I  joined  in  me- 


114  My  Life  in  Prison 

chanically — I  found  myself  singing  before  I  knew  it.  If 
was  an  awakening  of  my  emotional  nature  that  I  had 
thought  dead  because  it  had  been  suppressed  so  long. 
Right  there  and  then  I  believe  a  revolution  took  place  in 
my  soul.  I  felt  a  great  pity  for  the  human  derelicts  about 
me.  I  pitied  myself. 

It  was  not  until  the  hymn  was  ended  and  we  had  sat 
down  that  I  was  struck  with  a  remarkable  fact — Smoky 
had  joined  in  the  singing,  too.  He  had  sung  in  a  deep, 
baritone  voice,  resonant  above  all  the  others  about  us. 
I  had  not  thought  it  incongruous  at  the  moment,  but  when 
we  sat  down  I  wondered. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that  hymn,  Smoky?"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"In  th'  orphanage,"  he  replied,  briefly.  "They  used  t' 
make  us  sing  our  li'P  heads  off." 

There  was  no  opportunity  to  talk  with  him  right  then — 
it  was  against  the  rules — though  I  felt  it  was  what  is 
known  as  a  "psychological  moment."  I  determined  to 
stay  with  Smoky  after  we  got  outside  and  try  to  learn 
something  of  his  early  life.  The  more  I  saw  of  him  the 
more  I  felt  drawn  and  the  more  I  realized  that  he  was 
a  flower  which  had  been  choked  by  weeds.  I  knew  his 
life  should  have  been  different.  I  also  knew  that  it  was 
going  to  be  different.  All  he  needed  was  a  chance. 

But  all  I  had  felt,  all  the  preparation  for  the  "seed" 
that  had  taken  place  within  me  was  ruthlessly  banished  a 
moment  later  when  the  chaplain  started  to  talk.  As  soon 
as  he  opened  his  mouth  I  felt  as  if  some  one  had  exposed 
a  raw  nerve  and  were  operating  upon  it  with  a  horse- 
shoer's  rasp. 

I  frequently  find  myself  associating  persons  I  meet  with 
animals  or  flowers.  The  "Reverend"  August  Drahms  al- 
ways reminded  me  of  a  toad — I  couldn't  help  it.  Still, 
there  is  no  rancor  or  hate  in  my  thought  of  him.  He 


Donald  Lowrie  115 

couldn't  help  it,  either.  We  should  never  condemn  a 
man  for  being  blind.  But  we  all  know  that  blindness  is 
an  awful  thing. 

He  read  a  text  from  the  scriptures — I've  forgotten 
what  it  was — and  then  delivered  his  discourse.  He  spoke 
in  a  jerky  fashion,  biting  off  his  words — something  like 
the  final  sounds  made  by  a  dog  which  has  been  aroused 
in  the  night.  First,  the  dog  barks  loudly  and  rapidly, 
then  with  pauses,  finally  half-heartedly,  subsiding  with 
gulps  and  growls  and  little  snarls.  That  was  the  way  the 
chaplain's  talk  impressed  me. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  sermon.  There  wasn't  a  word 
of  charity  nor  a  tone  of  sympathy  in  it.  We  sat  there 
and  squirmed  while  he  digressed  for  a  moment  to  tell  us 
it  was  for  our  "good"  that  we  were  in  prison  and  that  it 
was  for  our  "good"  that  we  had  assembled  to  hear  him 
say  so. 

After  he  had  finished  there  was  another  hymn,  not 
nearly  so  effective  as  the  first  had  been — the  "sermon" 
had  deadened  response — and  then  the  chaplain  called  for 
"testimony." 

Quite  a  number  of  men  responded,  and  Smoky  kept  up 
a  running  commentary. 

"A  fakir,"  "A  hypocrite."  "He'd  steal  th'  rings  off 
his  dead  mother's  fingers,"  "That  guy's  on  th'  square," 
"He'd  cut  y'r  t'roat  in  a  minute,"  were  some  of  his  ex- 
pressions as  different  men  arose. 

Finally  an  unprepossessing  man,  with  a  sensual  face, 
got  up  and  talked  for  ten  minutes,  chiefly  about  himself 
and  how  much  better  he  felt  since  the  Lord  had  singled 
him  out  as  particularly  worthy.  He  finished  with, — but 
there's  one  thing  above  all  others  that  I'm  thankful  for. 
Praise  the  Lord  I'm  not  here  for  stealing." 

Smoky  squirmed  in  his  seat  and  clinched  his  hands,  and 
I  knew  he  was  very  much  wrought  up,  especially  when  the 


116  My  Life  in  Prison 

chaplain  arose  and  offered  a  prayer  in  which  he  recom- 
mended the  last  speaker  in  particular  to  the  watchfulness 
and  favoritism  of  the  Almighty. 

When  we  got  outside  I  took  several  breaths  of  fresh 
air.  I  was  conscious  of  conflicting  emotions. 

"That  last  man  who  spoke,"  I  ventured,  as  Smoky  and 
I  reached  the  yard — "what's  he  here  for?  He  thanked 
God  he  wasn't  here  for  stealing." 

Smoky  turned  so  abruptly  that  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  hit  me.  His  eyes  were  flashing  and  his  shoulders  heav- 
ing. He  spat  vigorously  and  bit  off  a  chew  of  tobacco 
before  replying. 

"D'y'r  wanter  know  what  that  guy's  here  f'r?"  he 
asked.  "D'y'r  really  wanter  know?" 

Of  course,  that  only  served  to  make  me  more  curious. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  y'r.  You  an'  me  is  angels,  milk-white 
angels,  alongside  o'  that  stiff.  All  he  did  was  f'rget  that 
th'  little  15-year  old  girl  was  his  own  daughter;  that's 
all.  An'  that  hatchet-faced  grafter  gettin'  up  an'  askin' 
Almighty  God  t'  single  that  kind  of  a  yeller-tail  outer  th' 
herd  an'  save  him  a  reserved  seat  when  we  all  bumps  off, 
Bah!  If  that's  Christianity,  thank  God  I'm  an  honest 
crook." 

While  we  had  been  in  the  chapel  the  sun  had  dispelled 
the  fog  and  we  found  the  yard  more  comfortable  than  it 
had  been  when  we  left  it.  As  is  the  custom,  the  prison 
band  assembled  at  11  o'clock  and  gave  a  concert.  This 
band  is  comprised  entirely  of  prisoners,  self-instructed 
and  self-supported  at  that  time.  Instruments  and  music 
were  secured  by  subscriptions  from  the  prisoners. 

There  was  a  strong  demand  for  waltzes  and  other  dance 
music,  and  I  noticed  that  Smoky  wanted  to  go  under  the 
shed,  where  the  dancing  was  in  progress.  I  wanted  to 
ask  him  about  his  early  life,  but  refrained.  I  already 
knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that  it  would  be  best  to 


Donald  Lowrie  117 

wait  until  he  was  in  the  mood.     He  asked  me  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  shed  and  I  did  so. 

About  thirty  couples — ladies  conspicuous  by  their  ab- 
sence— were  dancing.  Smoky  sought  and  found  a  part- 
ner, Frisco  Slim,  I  think  it  was,  and  whirled  off.  I  sat 
and  watched  them. 

Nearly  every  face  that  bobbed  past  me  seemed  content. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  forgetfulness  of  their  imprisonment, 
of  their  surroundings.  I  did  a  good  deal  of  thinking  dur- 
ing those  two  hours.  While  it  seemed  strange  to  see  men 
in  prison  dancing,  nevertheless  I  realized  that  it  was  a 
good  thing.  . 

The  more  abnormal  a  man's  life  is  the  more  abnormal 
he  becomes  and  the  more  liable  he  is  to  get  out  of  touch 
with  what  we  call  civilized  conditions. 

The  scene  before  me  was  but  a  safety  valve — it  afforded 
some  of  the  men  an  opportunity  to  work  off  part  of  the 
repression.  Better  work  it  off  that  way  than  to  have 
it  stored  up  until  the  end  and  then  manifest  itself  in  utter 
abandonment  and  disregard  for  law  and  order,  as  it  so 
frequently  does. 

People  are  prone  to  wonder  when  a  man  just  released 
from  the  penitentiary  gets  drunk  and  commits  crime  with- 
in twenty-four  hours.  The  wonder  to  me  is  that  this  does 
not  occur  to  a  greater  extent  than  it  does.  Let  us  stop 
and  enter  into  the  feelings  of  such  a  man. 

He  has  been  in  prison  for  years,  perhaps  for  a  decade. 
During  all  that  time  he  has  been  kept  in  physical  and 
mental  subjection,  he  has  been  discouraged  from  manifest- 
ing initiative,  he  has  spent  long  hours  thinking  of  the 
"good  time"  he  will  have  on  the  day  of  his  release.  He 
has  had  nothing  to  make  him  realize  that  release  will  mean 
new  responsibilities. 

In  prison  he  has  his  meals  and  a  place  to  sleep,  sordid 
as  they  may  be.  He  need  give  no  thought  for  the  mor- 


118  My  Life  In  Prison 

row ;  he  need  not  practise  frugality ;  he  loses  all  sense  of 
the  order  of  things  and  of  the  fact  that  what  each  man 
gets  is  what  he  earns.  He  has  no  conception  of  the  use 
and  value  of  money.  He  has  received  nothing  in  return 
for  his  labor.  In  short,  he  has  been  reduced  to  the  level 
of  an  unthinking  animal,  and  kept  there. 

On  the  day  of  his  release  he  is  given  a  suit  of  cheap 
clothing  and  five  dollars  in  money.  He  feels  that  he  is 
entitled  to  have  a  good  time — and  I  believe  he  is.  If  he 
didn't  have  a  good  time  he  would  still  be  a  prisoner — and 
the  methods  that  have  been  employed  to  keep  him  in  sub- 
jugation have  not  tended  in  the  least  to  make  him  real- 
ize the  need  of  self-control  and  temperance.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  he  turns  into  the  first  saloon  he  comes  to.  From 
the  saloon  he  goes  to  a  worse  place — and  he  comes  out  of 
this  "worse  place"  crestfallen  and  "broke." 

He  has  not  made  any  provision  for  his  board  and  he  has 
no  change  of  underclothing.  Credit  is  entirely  out  of  the 
question. 

His  work  in  the  jute  mill  has  not  fitted  him  for  hard, 
physical  labor,  and  those  who  essay  hard  labor  at  first 
generally  "cave  in."  Some  men  manage  to  tide  themselves 
along — how  I  do  not  know — and  gradually  become  used 
to  normal  conditions.  In  time  they  get  employment,  and, 
if  fortunate,  manage  to  keep  it  without  exposure. 

But  a  great  many,  after  their  pitiful  little  "fling,"  see 
but  one  solution  to  their  plight — crime.  Some  of  them 
are  caught  immediately  and  are  held  up  to  the  world  as 
confirmed  criminals. 

"Only  out  of  prison  twenty-four  hours  and  commits 
robbery,"  say  the  headlines. 

Last  week  I  took  lunch  in  a  place  where  thousands  of 
persons  congregate  daily  for  midday  refreshment.  My 
mood  was  heavy,  well  suited  to  understand  what  I  exper- 
ienced before  I  left.  I  felt  alone  in  that  crowded  place. 


Donald  Lowrie  119 

People  all  about  me  were  laughing  and  chatting.  Pretty 
girls  nibbled  daintily  at  their  dessert,  some  of  them  happy 
in  the  presence  of  a  male  adorer  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table. 

I  wondered  how  many  men  there  are  in  San  Francisco 
whose  lives  are  without  the  music  of  home  ties,  of  a  near-  - 
ness  to  some  one  who  knows  and  understands  them.   There  > 
is  no  solitude  like  that  of  a  crowd.    But  this  is  aside  from  • 
my  purpose. 

The  young  fellow  who  waited  on  me  was  an  ex-convict. 
I  recognized  him  instantly  and  he  recognized  me,  but  nei- 
ther of  us  gave  any  sign.  While  eating  I  tried  to  remem- 
ber his  name  and  how  long  he  had  been  out,  but  all  I  could 
recall  was  that  I  had  seen  his  face  above  a  suit  of  stripes — 
the  rest  was  merged  in  6,000  other  striped  figures,  the 
number  of  men  who  passed  through  San  Quentin  while 
I  was  there. 

Just  as  I  finished  and  was  preparing  to  leave  the  young 
fellow  came  and  stood  beside  my  chair. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "but  isn't 
your  name  Lowrie?" 

I  replied  that  it  was. 

"Don't  you  remember  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  remember  your  face,"  I  replied,  "but  that's  all." 

"Don't  you  remember  'Lefty  Wright' — I  used  to  run 
with  him?" 

Instantly  I  recalled  the  period;  also  the  man  beside 
me.  'Lefty'  Wright  had  been  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the 
prison  and  had  been  in  the  "hole"  a  great  many  times  for 
fighting. 

"Yes,  B ,  I  remember  you  now.  How  are  you  get- 
ting along?" 

"I'm  doing  fine,"  he  replied,  proudly.  "I've  held  this 
job  two  years  now,  and  I'm  all  right.  But  at  first  I  had 
a  hard  time  of  it.  I  left  that  dump  with  my  mind  made 
up  never  to  go  back,  but  do  you  know  what  I  had  to  do? 


120  My  Life  In  Prison 

I  had  to  commit  four  burglaries  before  I  got  my  Head 
above  water.  I  couldn't  get  a  job  at  first,  and  nearly 
starved.  If  I'd  got  pinched  any  one  of  those  times  no- 
body would  have  understood;  thy'd  have  all  said  I  was 
no  good.  But  I  was  only  fighting  for  a  start  and  I  made 
it.  But  I  must  go.  Come  in  again  some  time.  I'm  on 
this  section  at  this  hour  every  day." 

After  he  left  I  sat  there  and  pondered.  Two  ex-con- 
victs had  met  and  conversed  in  the  crowd,  and  no  one 
was  the  wiser.  If  it  had  became  known  that  we  were  ex- 
convicts  there  would  have  been  a  drawing  aside  of  skirts, 
perhaps  an  exodus — yet  we  were  both  living  right  lives, 
earning  what  we  got,  and  we  had  both  paid  the  penalty  for 
the  wrong  of  the  past. 

Perhaps  I  should  not  have  made  this  digression  now, 
but  it  was  so  vividly  real  that  I  couldn't  help  it.  On  every 
hand  I  see  ex-prisoners,  most  of  them  at  work.  The  other 
'day  I  saw  a  man  who  spent  twenty  years  at  San  Quentin 
— twenty  years  that  made  him  an  old  man.  He  was  driv- 
ing an  ash  cart  in  Oakland.  The  horse  was  old  and  de- 
crepit, the  cart  was  old  and  unpainted,  the  driver  Was  old 
and  broken.  We  recognised  each  other  and  he  pulled  the 
horse  up  short.  His  face  broke  into  a  great  smile. 
"Hello,"  he  said,  cheerily. 
"Hello,"  said  I;  "how  are  you?" 

"Well,  I  used  to  be  a  family  man  and  had  a  good  home 
of  my  own.  Now  I  don't  even  own  old  Ben  here,"  refer- 
ring to  the  horse.  "That  jolt  robbed  me  of  everything. 
I'm  just  worrying  along,  trying  to  get  ahead  of  old  age. 
But  it's  better  than  that  life  over  there." 

He  chuckled  to  the  old  horse  and  moved  on.  Again 
two  ex-convicts  had  met  and  entered  into  each  other's 
feelings.  After  all,  it  is  only  the  man  whose  soul  has  been 
in  the  depths  that  can  put  himself  in  the  other  fellow's 
place,  though  the  self-riehteous  may  say  it  is  "birds  of 
a  feather." 


CHAPTER  XI 

"An'  y'r  really  want  t'  know  who  I  am  an'  where  I  come 
from  an'  where  I'm  goin'?"  queried  Smoky,  in  response  to 
a  direct  question  from  me  after  he  had  finished  dancing. 

"Yes,  Smokes" — we  called  him  "Smokes"  sometimes  in- 
stead of  Smoky — "I'd  like  to  know,"  I  rejoined  earnestly. 
"Not  out  of  curiosity,  not  because  I  want  to  pry  into  your 
affairs,  but  because — well,  because  I  like  you;  because  I 
think  you're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  even  if  you  have 
crushed  into  the  pen  four  times." 

I  blurted  this  out  in  one  breath.  It  was  just  what  I 
felt. 

Smoky  was  visibly  affected,  although  he  tried  to  con- 
ceal it. 

"There  ain't  much  t'  tell,  Bill,"  he  said,  with  a  quaver 
in  his  voice,  "but  y'r  th'  first  person  I've  met  in  my  life 
that  asked  me.  As  to  who  I  am,  I  don't  know;  as  to 
where  I  come  from,  I  don't  know;  as  to  where  I'm  goin', 
I  don't  know  that,  either,  an'  I  don't  care  a  hell  of  a  lot. 

"They  tol'  me  at  th'  orphanage  that  I  was  found  in  a 
pasteboard  box  in  th'  middle  of  a  vacant  lot,  with  not'in 
on  but  m'  skin  an'  hollerin'  t'  beat  th'  band.  Many  a  time 
I  wish  I'd  been  one  of  them  dummies  what  talks  with  their 
fingers — me  an'  th'  pasteboard  box  wouldn't  'a'  separated 
then. 

"Burin'  my  kid  days  at  th'  'sylum  I  was  a  holy  terror. 
I  was  always  in  trouble  an'  I  was  always  fightin'  back 


My  Life  In  Prison 

when  they  tried  t'  make  me  behave  by  beatin'  me  or  put- 
tin'  me  t'  bed  without  supper.  Many  a  night  when  I  was 
a  li'l'  bit  of  a  kid  less'n  five  years  old  I  went  t'  sleep  hun- 
gry, with  m'  li'l'  breadbasket  feelin'  as  if  my  li'l'  t'roat 
had  been  cut.  But  I'd  never  give  in;  I'd  never  let  them 
know  that  it  hurt.  Maybe  if  I'd  had  a  mother  it  might 
'a'  been  different. 

"I  come  near  havin'  a  mother  onct.  I  never  tol'  any- 
one about  it  before,  but  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  after  I  fin- 
ished my  last  bit  in  prison.  I  was  younger  then,  an'  I 
went  out  full  o'  good  res'lutions — so  full  o'  them  that  it 
hurt.  Th'  first  couple  o'  days  I  had  a  hard  time  keepin' 
clean — I  wanted  t'  go  an'  have  a  time,  take  in  th' — oh, 
you  know. 

"But  I  won  out,  an'  th'  third  day  I  shipped  as  waiter 
on  a  boat  goin'  north.  Luck  seemed  t'  be  with  me,  f'r  I 
got  a  job  's  soon  's  I  landed,  workin'  as  handy  man  around 
a  big  boardin'  house..  Th'  lady  o'  th'  house  treated  me 
fine  from  th'  start.  No  bossin',  no  orderin'  me  around  'r 
not'in'  like  that.  She  jus'  tol'  me  what  she  expected  me 
t'  do  an'  I  did  it,  an'  I  ate  at  th'  table  with  th'  rest  of 
'em.  She  took  care  o'  me  jus'  th'  same  as  if  I  belonged  t' 
her,  helped  me  buy  some  decent  rags,  an'  never  asked  a 
word  'bout  who  I  was  'r  where  I  come  from.  An'  maybe 
I  didn't  work — I  enjoyed  workin';  I  was  always  lookin' 
f'r  somethin'  t'  do,  somethin'  that  needed  fixin'. 

"Pretty  soon  me  an'  th'  girl — that  was  her  daughter; 
Rose  was  her  name — got  so  we  was  always  lookin'  at  each 
other,  an'  I  began  t'  feel  like  there  wasn't  anybody  but 
us  two  in  th'  world.  I  f'got  ev'rything  that  ever  happened 
t'  me,  an'  after  a  time  it  got  so  bad  that  I  couldn't  think 
o'  not'in'  else.  If  she  touched  me  'r  brushed  again'  me 
I  used  t'  feel  's  if  my  skypiece  was  cut  off  an'  flyin'  up  t' 
the  stars.  It  was  great.  An'  one  Sunday  when  she  washed 
her  hair — say,  I  wish  y'r  could  'a'  seen  that  hair!  It 


Donald  Lowrie 

was  red,  th'  beauti/ulest  red  y'r  ever  saw,  an'  long  an* 
thick,  an'  she  had  big  gray  eyes  what  looked  good  t'  drink, 
an'  her " 

Smoky  suddenly  stopped  and  looked  foolish.  Then  he 
broke  into  a  hard,  harsh  laugh. 

"Say,  y'r  must  t'ink  I'm  simple,"  he  said,  with  that  pe- 
culiar inflection  inviting  a  negative  answer. 

"Simple!"  I  made  haste  to  reply.  "Why,  Smoky,  I 
know  all  about  it.  I  had  a  girl  once  myself.  She  was  the 
most " 

I  stopped  as  abruptly  as  he  had,  just  in  time  to  save 
myself  from  usurping  the  place  of  leading  man. 

"Put  it  there !"  I  said,  impulsively,  extending  my  hand. 

Smoky  put  his  hand  about  mine  and  gave  me  a  great 
squeeze. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "you  know  how  I  felt.  I  was  in 
love  with  th'  gal,  that's  all;  clean  daffy  over  her,  an* 
that  Sunday  when  she  washed  her  hair  an'  was  sittin'  on 
the  back  porch  with  it  hangin'  down  behind  her  chair  she 
let  me  brush  it  t'  help  get  it  dry — an'  what  d'y'r  t'ink 
I  done  ?  I  yaffled  th'  end  of  it  an'  kissed  it  an'  she  pinched 
me.  I'll  never  f'rget  it  's  long  's  I  live.  I  don't  know 
how  she  knew,  but  she  turned  round  quick  's  a  flash  an* 
caught  me  dead  in  th'  act,  with  th'  goods  right  on  me, 
an'  I  was  so  rattled  I  jus'  stood  paralyzed,  with  her  hair 
up  against  my  kisser,  like  a  great  big  boob. 

"At  first  she  looked  kind  o'  mad,  then  she  gave  a  quick 
look  toward  th'  windows,  an'  then  she  laughed. 

"  'Well,  that's  a  nice  way  t'  brush  hair,  I  must  say,' 
she  says,  kind  o'  shy  like. 

"  'You  bet  it's  nice,'  I  shot  back  at  her,  gettin'  bold 
all  of  a  sudden,  'an'  I'd  like  th'  job  of  takin'  care  o'  it  all 
th'  time,  an'  what  goes  with  it.' 

"At  that  she  jumped  up  an'  looked  at  me  steady,  her 


My  Life  in  Prison 

big  eyes  meltin'  soft  an'  kind  o'  troubled  like,  but  she 
never  said  another  word,  but  went  inter  th'  house. 

"I  stood  around  a  while,  feelin'  sheepish,  an'  then  moped 
t'  th'  woodshed  an'  cut  up  about  ten  cords  o'  wood  before « 
night.     But  th'  more  I  thought  about  it  th'  better  I  felt, 
an'  when  I  saw  her  at  supper  that  night  she  blushed,  an'£ 
neither  of  us  would  look  at  each  other ;  that  is,  every  time . 
I  looked  at  her  t'  see  if  she  was  lookin'  at  me  she  was 
lookin'  at  me  t'  see  if  I  was  lookin'  at  her — you  know; 
what  I  mean. 

"Well,  her  mother  got  on  t'  th'  play  an'  it  seemed  t' 
please  her.  She  treated  me  better'n  ever,  an'  lookin'  back 
now  I  can  see  how  she  used  t'  fix  it  so's  me  an'  Rose  M 
be  together  a  whole  lot. 

"Natcher'ly,  I  f'rgot  all  'bout  th'  crooked  game  an'  got 
ambitious — an'  that's  where  I  broke  my  neck.  If  I'd 
been  satisfied  t'  keep  on  workin'  there  it  would  'a'  been  all 
right,  but  I  wanted  t'  do  better.  So  I  got  a  job  at  one  o' 
th'  hotels  as  a  kitchen  helper.  Y'r  know,  I  learned  cookin' 
when  I  made  that  trip  t'  Australia. 

"Things  went  along  fine  f 'r  a  time,  an'  I  got  a  raise  in 
wages,  an'  used  t'  help  around  th'  house  nights — me  an* 
Rose  used  t'  wash  th'  dishes — we  was  crazy  t'  do  it — 
an'  we  had  it  all  fixed  up  t'  get  married  when  th'  crash 
came. 

"A  dick  (detective)  what  knew  me  down  here  happened 
t'  stop  at  th'  hotel  an'  spotted  me.  He  tol'  them  at  th' 
office,  an'  I  was  called  up  an'  fired.  I  begged  f 'r  a  chance, 
but  they  said  they  was  sorry,  but  they  couldn't  keep  an 
ex-con  in  th'  hotel. 

"Maybe  I  wasn't  hostile.  At  first  I  thought  o'  croakin' 
th'  dick,  but  that  wouldn't  'a'  got  me  not'in',  only  th' 
rope,  maybe. 

"There  was  another  feller  workin'  at  th'  hotel  what 
boarded  with  us,  an'  he  was  so  hot  that  he  went  home 


Donald  Lowrie  125 

an*  tol'  Rose  an'  her  mother.  When  I  got  there  they 
treated  me  th'  same  as  if  not'in'  had  happened,  an'  when 
I  said  I  was  goin'  away  they  both  broke  down  an'  begged 
me  t'  stay,  but  I  wouldn't  listen. 

"I  wish  I  had  now.  But  I  jus'  packed  my  duds  and 
skinned  out.  She  got  mad  an'  called  me  a  coward  an'  a 
lot  o'  other  things,  but  I  wouldn't  listen.  I  tol*  her  I'd 
get  a  start  somewhere  else  an'  let  her  know.  But  all  th' 
time  I  knew  it  was  all  off — that  it  had  all  been  a  mis- 
take. She  was  too  good  f 'r  an  ex-con  like  me. 

"Y'r  see,  I'd  f'rgot  all  that  while  I  was  there — th'  thing 
happened  so  easy  like  an'  I  got  to  think  o'  her  so  much 
that  I  f'rgot  who  I  was.  But  that  dick  exposin'  me  showed 
me  jus'  where  I  stood.  I  couldn't  marry  Rose,  not  even 
knowin'  what  my  name  was,  an'  an  ex-con  t'  boot.  That 
wouldn't  be  fair  t'  her. 

"But  sometimes  I  think  I  made  a  mistake,  that  I  ough- 
ter  stuck  it  out  an'  took  her,  f'r  she  wanted  me  f'r  just 
jrhat  I  was  t'  her,  not  f'r  what  I  had  been. 

"An'  I  ain't  never  wrote.  That  was  sixteen  years  ago, 
an'  I  don't  even  know  if  she's  alive,  'r  what's  happened. 
I  came  back  down  here  an'  got  t'  drinkin'  an'  runnin'  with 
skirts,  an'  th'  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  th'  can  ag'in, 
up  against  it  f'r  robbery,  an'  got  this  twenty-year  jolt." 

That  night  when  we  went  to  the  cell  the  "Kid"  did  not 
appear.  As  soon  as  we  were  locked  in  I  asked  Smoky 
where  the  boy  was. 

"Oh,  they've  taken  him  inter  th'  hospital  at  last,"  he 
replied,  "an'  th'  chances  are  we'll  never  see  him  again." 

The  next  day  I  asked  one  of  the  hospital  attendants 
about  it. 

"Oh,  the  Kid's  got  the  T.  B.,  an'  got  it  bad.  He's  in 
th'  old  hospital,  an'  th'  chances  are  he'll  come  out  feet 
first.  Once  he  gets  up  there  with  that  bunch  of  incur- 
ables he'll  give  up  like  nearly  all  of  them  do." 


126  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  asked  if  there  was  any  chance  of  my  getting  permis- 
sion to  see  him,  and  learned  that  it  was  against  the  rules. 
I  reported  the  result  of  my  inquiry  to  Smoky  that  night 
and  learned  that  such  was  the  case — prisoners  were  not 
permitted  to  visit  friends  who  might  be  in  the  hospital. 

"Why,  I  remember  a  case  only  las'  month,"  Smoky  in- 
formed me.  "Two  fellers  got  kicked  in  here  f'r  robbery — 
got  ten  years  apiece.  One  of  'em  took  sick  about  two 
months  ago,  an'  his  partner  tried  t'  get  up  t'  see  him, 
but  couldn't.  Y'r  see,  they  didn't  give  their  names  when 
they  was  pinched,  an'  they  didn't  tell  anybody  here  who 
they  was.  So  th'  feller  in  th'  yard  wanted  t'  get  to  see 
his  partner  so's  t'  find  out  if  he  wanted  his  folks  tol'  about 
his  bein'  sick.  But  they  wouldn't  let  him  go  up,  an'  th' 
young  feller  died.  They  planted  him  out  there  where 
they  put  Charlie  Bryce.  I  was  talkin'  to  his  partner 
in  th'  yard  this  afternoon,  an'  he  don't  know  what  t*  do. 
He  don't  know  whether  t'  write  an'  tell  his  partner's 
mother  what's  happened,  'r  keep  still  an'  never  let  'em 
know  he  died  in  th'  pen.  They  was  raised  together  in  th* 
same  town,  an'  ran  away  from  home.  Down  there  in  Fres- 
no they  rolled  a  drunk  an'  got  seven  dollars  off  him,  an' 
th'  judge  soaked  'em  with  ten  years  each  because  they 
wouldn't  tell  who  they  was  an'  where  they  belonged.  The 
feller  what's  left  says  he'll  never  be  able  to  look  his  part- 
ner's mother  in  th'  face  if  he  ever  goes  back  home.  An* 
it  seems  there's  some  girl  back  there  what  was  stuck  on 
him,  too.  They  thought  they  could  get  a  start  here  in 
Californy  an'  then  go  back  all  dogged  up  an'  cut  a  fig- 
ger.  But  this  is  what  they  got." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  I  suggested,  "that  it  would  be  better 
to  tell  the  boy's  mother  what's  happened.  If  she'  isn't 
told  sh'll  worry  and  fret  all  her  life.  It  would  be  best 
to  have  it  over  with,  bad  as  it  is." 

"Well,  I  never  had  a  mother,"  rejoined  Smoky,  "but  it 


Donald  Lowrle  127 

seems  t'  me  it  is  best  not  t'  tell  her.  She'll  go  on  hopin* 
an'  imaginin'  all  kind  o'  good  things;  an'  jus'  think  what 
a  blow  f'r  her  t'  find  out  that  he  died  in  th'  pen,  a  con. 
No,  it's  better  f'r  her  never  t'  know.  Of  course,  if  his 
partner  had  got  t'  see  him  an'  found  out  what  he  wanted 
him  t'  do  in  case  he  bumped  off,  why,  it  would  'a'  been  dif- 
f'rent." 

I  remained  silent  a  few  moments,  thinking  of  the  boy 
who  had  been  our  cellmate. 

"Where  is  the  'Kid's'  father,  Smoky?" 

Smoky  turned  to  me  in  pleased  surprise.  "Now,  that's 
funny ;  I  was  thinkin'  o'  that  very  same  thing  m'self .  His 
father  is  a  policeman  in  Chicago,  an'  he's  tried  ev'ry  way 
t'  get  th'  Kid  out,  but  it  ain't  no  use.  Th'  law  says  he 
can  be  paroled  in  one  year,  but  th'  board  has  their  own 
rules,  an'  they  say  he  mus'  serve  half  time.  Of  course, 
in  his  case,  with  fifty  years,  they  don't  make  him  serve 
half  time,  but  he's  jus'  th'  same  's  a  lifer;  he's  got  t'  serve 
eight  years  before  they'll  listen  t'  parole  f'r  him.  I've 
thought  'bout  that  law  and  them  rules  a  whole  lot.  It 
seems  t'  me  that  they  passed  that  law  at  Sacramento  Pr 
jus'  such  cases,  so's  some  o'  these  sentences  from  rough- 
neck judges  could  be  evened  up.  You  know  how  it  is. 
T'day  some  four  'r  five  time  loser  '11  drive  up  with  a  year, 
an'  t'morrer  some  poor  kid,  'r  a  farmer,  will  come  f'r 
fifteen  'r  twenty,  an'  f'r  th'  very  same  kind  o'  crime. 

"Take  Lefty  Wright's  case,  f'r  instance.  They  caught 
him  blowin'  a  pete  right  in  th'  heart  o'  th'  city  in  th'  dead 
o'  night — caught  him  right  in  th'  act.  But  he  happened  t' 
have  fr'en's  in  politics,  an'  even  with  three  jolts  t'  his 
credit  he  got  off  with  four  years.  And  th'  very  same 
day  a  young  feller  got  kicked  in  from  Los  Angeles  f'r 
breakin'  inter  a  boxcar  at  night  an'  got  twelve  years.  Both 
cases  was  burglary,  first  degree.  Lefty  had  'soup'  an' 


128  My  Life  in  Prison 

tools  with  him  an*  was  a  professional  prowler,  same's  me, 
an'  all  he  gets  is  four  years.  The  young  feller  was  an 
accident,  an*  he  gets  twelve.  That  ain't  right.  It  ain't 
square.  Once  in  a  while  an  old-timer  gets  j  olted,  but  more 
oftener  he  knows  enough  not  t'  fight  th'  case,  slips  inter 
court,  gives  th'  judge  a  hard  luck  tale  an'  gets  off  light; 
while  th'  green  one,  not  bein'  onter  th'  ropes,  tries  t'  beat 
it  by  standin'  trial,  an'  gets  th'  limit.  That's  what  th' 
parole  law  oughter  work  on — cases  like  that.  There's  lots 
of  'em.  Why  shouldn't  that  kid  go  home  t'  his  father 
an'  maybe  be  th'  means  o'  gettin'  his  mother  out  o'  th' 
bughouse  ?" 

I  did  not  reply  to  the  question.  There  wasn't  any  reply 
to  make. 

"Mind  you,  I  ain't  kickin'  aHout  m'self,"  Smoky  went 
on.  "I  got  just  what  was  comin'  t'  me.  An'  lots  of  th' 
judges  are  good  men  an'  use  discretion.  Take  Judge 

M ,  'r  Judge  R ,  'r  Judge  B .  They  wouldn't 

send  no  boy  t'  prison  f'r  fifty  years,  an'  even  after  they 
sends  a  man  here  they  take  an  int'rest  in  him.  But  there's 
bad  judges  's  well  's  good  judges,  like  ev'ry thing  else.  It 
oughter  be  fixed  some  way  so's  ev'ry  man  would  get  a 
square  deal — get  jus'  what  was  comin'  t'  him." 

"You  mean  the  indeterminate  sentence?"     I  asked. 

"Well,  yes — pervided  it  could  be  fixed  so's  a  man  would 
always  get  a  square  deal  here.  It  wouldn't  work  th'  way 
things  are  now.  A  man  like  th'  one  I  pointed  out  t'  y'r  in 
th'  yard,  what  holds  in  f'r  a  feller  an'  lays  f'r  a  chance 
t'  cinch  him,  could  keep  y'r  here  forever.  But  if  they 
had  it  fixed  so's  ev'ry  man  would  have  t'  go  out  on  parole, 
an'  give  him  a  fair  start,  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing. 
Maybe  if  that  had  happened  t'  me  when  I  drove  up  th' 
first  time  I  might  not  be  here  now.  I  like  t'  work — I 
'ain't  lazy — an'  I  know  this  game  don't  pay — there's  not'in' 
in  it. 


Donald  Lowrie  129 

"A  man  startin'  out  on  parole,  with  th'  prison  offcers 
backin'  him  up  an'  seein'  that  he  gets  a  square  deal  has 
it  all  over  th'  guy  what  does  his  time  an'  goes  out  with- 
out knowin'  where  he's  goin' t'  sleep  th'  first  night.  I  been 
watchin'  th'  game  a  whole  lot  lately.  There's  more  men 
comes  back  after  doin'  their  time  an'  being  discharged 
with  five  dollars,  an'  not  knowin'  what  they'll  do  when  they 
get  out  than  there  is  men  what  have  been  paroled.  Five 
'r  six  second-timers  blow  in  t'  each  guy  what  violates  pa- 
role. Don't  that  go  t'  prove  that  parole  is  a  good  thing? 
An'  ain't  ev'rybody  th'  gainer  when  a  guy  straightens  up 
an'  does  th'  right  thing?  What  good  does  it  do  t'  keep 
me  f'r  a  twenty-year  sentence  an'  then  turn  me  loose  t'  do 
as  I  please,  an'  not  knowin'  where  I'm  goin'  'r  what  I'm 
going'  t'  do?  An'  most  fellers  feel  sore,  especially  if 
they've  done  a  long  jolt.  Not  only  that,  but  I  knows 
lots  o'  guys  what  has  families.  Some  o'  'em  do  time  awful 
hard;  they  do  more  time  in  a  month  than  us  fellers  do  in 
a  year.  Why?  Because  they  keep  thinkin'  an'  worryin* 
about  th'  wife  and  kids.  What  good  does  it  do  t'  keep  a 
man  like  that  penned  up  jus'  so  long,  simply  because  some 
judge  had  a  grouch  on  an'  handed  him  five  'r  ten  years? 
It's  no  wonder  so  many  guys  go  wrong  again.  I've  talked 
with  lots  of  'em  what  have  gone  out  sore.  An'  lots  o' 
homes  are  broken  up  jus'  on  that  account.  Th'  woman 
struggles  along,  tryin'  t'  keep  her  head  above  water,  hopin* 
she  can  wait  f'r  her  man  t'  get  out,  but  it's  too  much,  an* 
she  has  t'  give  up.  Lots  o'  divorces  happen  jus'  that  way, 
because  th'  woman  can't  keep  herself  an'  has  t'  get  an- 
other man  jus'  f'r  that  reason. 

"But  'make  'em  serve  half  time,'  says  th'  board.  No 
matter  who  they  are,  'r  what  they  done,  'r  who  suffers, 
'make  'em  serve  half  time — let's  have  revenge.' " 


CHAPTER  XII 

Shortly  after  my  first  attendance  at  chapel,  ah  even? 
occurred  which  served  to  clinch  my  impressions  and  turn 
me,  with  many  others,  still  more  decisively  against  relig- 
ion as  then  exemplified  at  the  penitentiary. 

Before  recounting  it,  however,  I  want  to  say  that  the 
present  chaplain  is  a  hard-working,  conscientious  man. 
During  the  time  he  has  been  chaplain  he  has  established 
a  school  for  illiterates  and  for  teaching  English  to  those 
who  are  unable  to  speak  it.  Also  he  has  improved  the 
prison  library,  though  it  has  not  yet  been  brought  up  to 
the  state  of  efficiency  practically  possible.  There  are  no 
printed  catalogues,  and  the  men  do  not  have  opportunity 
for  getting  to  the  library  as  they  should. 

It  would  seem  to  me  that  each  prisoner  should  be  fur- 
nished with  a  catalogue  and  arrangements  perfected  by 
which  books  would  be  delivered  at  the  cells.  At  present 
the  men  desiring  books  are  obliged  to  rush  to  the  library 
in  the  early  morning  or  wait  until  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  there  is  a  big  crowd  and  poor  service. 

Until  quite  recently  there  was  no  fund  for  the  purchase 
of  new  books,  but,  thanks  to  the  persistence  of  Warden 
Hoyle,  arrangements  have  been  perfected  by  which  the 
interest  from  the  prisoners'  and  parole  funds,  a  sum  ag- 
gregating $22,000,  is  available  for  that  purpose.  Prior  to 
that  arrangement  the  moneys  in  these  funds  were  held  in 
trust  by  the  bank,  without  interest. 

130 


Donald  Lowrie  131 

Also,  under  the  present  chaplain  the  prejudice  against 
religion  has  been  softened  to  a  great  extent.  It  was  not 
religion  itself  that  the  men  repudiated  and  condemned  so 
much  as  the  man  who  professed  to  expound  it  during  the 
twenty  years  that  August  Drahms  was  chaplain. 

Prisoners  are  quick  to  "size  a  man  up,"  and  they  are 
keen,  exceedingly  keen,  in  detecting  insincerity  and  lack 
of  human  sympathy. 

But  before  relating  the  one  incident  that  stands  out 
above  all  others  in  my  knowledge  of  Drahms,  I  must  say 
a  few  words  for  the  visiting  chaplains  from  the  Roman 
Catholic  diocese  at  San  Rafael.  These  good  men  make 
regular  semi-weekly  (sometimes  more  frequent)  visits  to 
the  prison  hospitals,  hold  services  each  Sunday  and  take 
a  genuine  interest  in  the  work.  They  help  many  men  to 
redeem  themselves  by  personal  effort,  and  I  know  of  doz- 
ens of  cases  where  they  have  made  the  $25  deposit  and 
furnished  the  work  and  clothing  necessary  for  a  man's 
parole. 

Also,  it  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  nearly  every  con- 
demned prisoner  embraces  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  be- 
fore being  taken  to  the  scaffold  and  dropped  through  the 
awful  little  square  hole  without  any  bottom. 

This  was  especially  true  of  the  two  score  human  beings 
who  were  executed  at  San  Quentin  during  Drahms*  incum- 
bency, and  in  one  case  a  condemned  man's  final  request  of 
the  warden  was  that  Drahms  be  excluded  from  the  exe- 
cution room,  which  request  was  granted. 

It  was  the  only  execution  that  Drahms  missed  during 
his  term  of  office.  He  attended  even  when  he  did  not 
officiate. 

It  was  no  wonder  to  me  that  he  succeeded  in  bringing 
religion  into  disrepute,  and  I  feel  sure  it  will  be  no  won- 
ider  to^you.  I  could  fill  pages  with  incidents  concerning 


My  Life  in  Prison 

him,  some  of  them  so  unconscionable  as  to  be  incredible, 
but  one  will  suffice. 

Charlie  Bryce,  a  lifer  who  was  very  popular  with  all 
the  prisoners,  died  suddenly  one  night  from  the  effects  of 
a  hemorrhage.  At  the  time  of  his  death  the  friends  of  a 
deceased  prisoner  were  permitted  to  attend  the  burial  at 
the  prison  cemetery.  This  attendance  was  limited  to  fifty, 
however,  and  Charlie  had  been  so  popular  that  a  petition 
was  made  to  the  warden  asking  if  there  might  not  be  a 
funeral  service  in  the  chapel.  Such  a  thing  had  never 
been  done  before — and  has  not  been  done  since — but  the 
warden  gave  the  desired  permission. 

The  band  men — of  which  organization  Charlie  had  been 
a  member — had  a  tasteful  musical  programme  arranged, 
and  all  went  smoothly  until  the  chaplain  delivered  his  ora- 
tion. He  started  in  well,  but  before  he  had  proceeded 
very  far  he  forgot  the  sacredness  of  the  occasion  by  en- 
deavoring to  drive  home  the  "moral"  of  Charlie's  death  in 
prison.  He  pictured  the  deceased  prisoner's  ignominious 
end  and  predicted  a  similar  fate  for  a  great  many  of  us 
if  we  did  not  accept  his  teachings  and  example. 

The  audience  became  audibly  and  visibly  impatient,  but 
the  speaker  paid  no  heed.  As  he  went  on  there  was  a 
murmuring  and  a  shuffling  of  feet.  But,  entirely  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  addressing  the  dead  man's  friends, 
the  men  who  had  known  him  as  a  "square  guy,"  the  chap- 
lain persisted. 

I  began  to  get  nervous,  sensing  that  there  would  be 
some  sort  of  disgraceful  demonstration  before  he  finished 
unless  he  paid  some  attention  to  the  uneasiness  he  had 
aroused,  nor  was  I  mistaken.  The  climax  came  dramat- 
ically. 

Visibly  annoyed  at  the  way  the  men  were  behaving,  the 
chaplain  suddenly  stopped.  So  did  the  noise.  Then, 
pointing  a  long,  bony  finger  at  the  face  of  the  corpse  lying 


Donald  Lowrie  133 

in  the  black-painted  pine  box  before  him,  Drahms  took 
two  measured  paces  forward  and  said: 

"There  lies  the  wages  of  sin.  Gone  to  the  judgment 
of  his  Maker  with  blackened  soul.  But  the  Almighty  is 
merciful.  He  may  have  mercy  on  this  man,  for,  even 
though  he  was  a  criminal,  there  may  have  been  some  good 
in  him.  The  Lord " 

I  do  not  know  what  he  said  about  "the  Lord,"  for  his 
words  were  drowned  in  hisses  and  cat-calls.  The  guards 
arose  and  made  a  half-hearted  effort  to  restore  order — 
half-hearted,  because  they,  also,  had  known  and  liked 
Charlie  Bryce — but  the  men  were  inflamed,  and  each  time 
the  chaplain  tried  to  continue  they  hissed  and  scraped 
their  feet. 

Finally,  with  a  sneering  expression,  he  resumed  his  seat, 
and  the  men  at  the  organ  immediately  began  singing 
"Nearer  My  God  to  Thee." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene,  nor  my  emotions.  I  was 
torn  between  regret  that  such  a  disgraceful  demonstra- 
tion should  have  occurred  and  a  desire  to  go  up  and  lay 
violent  hands  on  the  man  who  had  caused  it. 

After  the  hymn  we  were  permitted  to  form  in  line  and 
march  after  the  coffin.  As  I  passed  beside  it  I  was  glad 
that  the  shell  before  me  had  not  been  conscious  of  what 
had  taken  place  a  few  minutes  before. 

When  we  had  all  passed  the  spot  the  turnkey  took  a 
long  look  at  the  dead  face  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
really  a  corpse  in  the  box,  and  then  the  lid  was  screwed 
down  in  his  presence.  Fifty  of  us  had  permission  to  at- 
tend the  burial  outside  the  walls. 

As  the  cortege  passed  across  the  yard  one  of  the  gard- 
eners stepped  furtively  from  his  work  and  laid  a  bunch 
of  violets  on  top  of  the  coffin.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
human  acts  I  have  ever  seen,  and  yet  he  seemed  half- 
ashamed  of  himself  for  doing  it.  Afraid  of  being  con- 


134  My  Life  m  Prison 

sidered  sentimental,  I  suppose.  So  many  of  us  fail  to 
differentiate  between  what  is  human  and  what  is  senti- 
mental. 

There  was  no  hearse,  and  when  the  six  lifers  who  were 
acting  as  pall-bearers  got  to  the  front  gate  they  were 
obliged  to  manoeuvre  to  get  the  coffin  through  the  little 
man-gate.  The  front  gate  at  San  Quentin  is  so  arranged 
that  but  one  person  can  pass  through  at  a  time,  the  big 
double  gate,  of  which  the  man-gate  is  a  part,  never  being 
opened.  All  teaming  is  done  through  the  back  gates,  down 
by  the  jute  mill. 

By  dispensing  with  the  cross-bars  and  placing  a  man  at 
either  end,  the  coffin  was  shoved  and  twisted  through  the 
small  opening.  I  could  not  help  but  feel  that  there  was 
something  sacrilegious  about  it.  It  looked  so  much  like 
handling  a  box  of  freight,  or  something  like  that. 

We  were  counted  as  we  passed  out  behind  the  coffin, 
and  on  getting  outside  armed  guards  took  up  positions  on 
either  side  of  the  procession.  Immediately  I  forgot  all 
about  the  funeral.  I  was  so  interested  in  the  scene  before 
me — the  bay  and  the  distant  shore  lines.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  had  been  outside  the  four  walls  since  my  arrival. 

Arrived  at  the  cemetery,  we  stopped  at  an  open  grave. 
The  chaplain  was  already  there;  he  had  ridden  out  in  a 
conveyance.  We  all  had  our  hats  off,  but  he  kept  his  on. 
He  stepped  up  to  the  grave  to  say  the  last  words,  but  one 
of  the  men  began  singing  before  he  could  speak,  and  as 
soon  as  the  hymn  was  finished  the  grave-diggers  began 
shovelling  the  earth  in  hurriedly.  But  the  chaplain  was 
persistent  and  managed  to  mumble  something  about  "dust 
to  dust." 

Then,  slowly  and  with  great  feeling,  the  cornetist,  who 
had  been  Charlie's  "bunky"  in  the  band  room,  sounded 
taps  over  the  grave.  He  seemed  to  put  his  whole  soul 
into  it,  and  we  were  all  deeply  moved.  That  sounding  of 


Donald  Lowrie  135 

taps  touched  notes  in  our  breasts  that  the  words  and 
songs  had  failed  utterly  to  reach. 

Some  one  had  taken  the  little  bunch  of  violets  from 
the  top  of  the  coffin  before  it  was  lowered,  and  after  the 
grave  was  filled  laid  it  on  top. 

Sydney  Lanier  says  a  violet  is  God. 

And  then,  even  as  we  stood  there,  waiting  the  signal  to 
march  back,  the  grave-diggers  placed  the  white  board  at 
the  head  of  the  grave — just  a  white  board  with  a  black 
number  painted  on  it — the  dead  man's  prison  number. 

The  chaplain  had  referred  to  Charlie  Bryce  as  a  crimi- 
nal. Was  he  a  criminal?  He  was  sentenced  to  imprison- 
ment for  life  because  he  killed  another  man  during  a 
heated  altercation  and  after  the  other  man  had  attacked 
him.  For  one  moment  of  anger  he  paid  with  his  life,  yet 
every  characteristic  of  the  man  clearly  demonstrated  that 
he  was  a  normal  human  being,  kind  to  his  fellows  and 
peaceable.  There  are  many  such  men  whom  the  unthink- 
ing regard  as  "criminals." 

During  the  first  eighteen  months  of  my  imprisonment 
I  bathed  outdoors.  The  only  provision  for  bathing  was 
a  shed,  open  on  all  sides,  in  which  there  was  a  primitive 
shower  arrangement  running  down  the  centre.  Two  after- 
noons each  week  the  water — warm  salt  water — was  turned 
on,  and  those  who  desired  to  do  so  were  excused  from  work 
for  twenty  minutes  to  take  a  bath.  There  was  no  com- 
pulsion about  it,  and  a  surprisingly  small  number  of  men 
took  advantage  of  it,  especially  during  the  winter,  when 
the  air  was  cold,  or  damp,  or  foggy.  Sometimes  there 
would  be  a  comparatively  warm  day  during  the  week  when 
a  bath  might  have  been  taken  in  the  open  air  without  a 
great  deal  of  discomfort,  but  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays 
were  the  regular  days,  and  it  made  no  difference  whether 
it  were  rainy  or  windy  or  cold,  they  were  the  only  days 
that  the  water  was  turned  on. 


186  My  Life  in  Prison 

A  great  many  of  the  men  did  not  bathe  at  all  during 
the  winter  months,  and  no  record  was  kept  to  show  whether 
a  prisoner  bathed  or  not.  Of  course,  I  caught  a  severe 
cold  which  I  was  unable  to  cure,  and  which  came  close  to 
developing  into  pneumonia  once  or  twice.  But  during 
the  entire  eighteen  months  that  I  worked  in  the  jute  mill 
I  never  missed  a  day  at  my  task,  though  there  were  sev- 
eral occasions  when  I  worked  all  day  while  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  fever. 

And  there  were  times  when  I  did  not  dare  take  a  bath 
for  two,  even  three  weeks.  Going  out  from  the  warm  mill 
and  undressing  outdoors,  with  no  protection  from  the  cold 
wind  blowing  off  the  foggy  bay,  was  an  ordeal  even  when 
one  was  healthy,  but  to  one  suffering  from  a  cold,  or  with 
fever,  it  was  positive  torture.  True,  the  hot  shower  was 
refreshing,  and  comparatively  comfortable,  so  long  as 
one  remained  under  it.  The  menace  was  afterward,  dur- 
ing the  interval  of  drying  the  body  and  dressing  in  the 
cold.  Imagine  taking  a  hot  bath  in  midwinter  and  then 
going  out  on  the  porch  or  in  the  back  yard  to  dry  and 
dress  yourself.  But  it  was  a  case  of  taking  the  chance 
of  catching  cold  or  going  without  a  bath.  Many  of  the 
men  chose  to  take  the  chance. 

Smoky  used  to  heat  a  wash-basin  of  water  over  our 
lamp  and  take  a  "sponge  bath"  in  the  cell  on  Saturday 
night,  and  he  persuaded  the  "Kid"  and  the  others  to  do 
likewise,  but  I  only  tried  it  once.  There  was  not  suf- 
ficient water,  and  I  felt  sticky  and  uncomfortable  after- 
ward. I  determined  to  get  used  to  the  open-air  bath  in 
the  jute  mill  yard.  Among  those  who  did  likewise  quite 
a  number  became  seriously  ill  and  were  taken  into  the 
hospital,  where  several  died  of  pneumonia  or  sank  into 
chronic  lung  trouble. 

Additional  to  the  physical  danger  of  bathing  without 
protection  from  the  elements,  there  was  the  utter  lack 


Donald  Lowrie  137 

of  privacy  to  endure.  One  had  to  undress  and  bathe  in 
the  presence  of  hundreds  of  men,  frequently  in  the  pres- 
ence of  visitors  who  were  being  shown  through  the  prison. 
Of  course,  some  of  the  men  didn't  mind  that,  but  quite  a 
number  did.  It  used  to  embitter  me  to  hear  the  different 
guards  in  charge  of  visiting  parties  descant  on  the  "fine" 
bathing  arrangements. 

"Here's  the  bathhouse,"  one  guard  used  to  exclaim. 
"Fine  hot  shower  bath,  salt  water;  almost  as  good  as  a 
hotel." 

Of  course,  very  few  of  the  visitors  stopped  to  think  of 
the  inhuman  method  of  making  men  come  from  under  hot 
water  and  dress  in  the  open  air.  And  this  method  of  bath- 
ing prevailed  at  San  Quentin  for  many  years.  It  has  only 
been  within  the  past  year  that  a  large,  airy,  modern  bath- 
room has  been  completed  and  put  into  operation.  This 
bathroom  has  about  forty  booths,  each  with  its  swinging 
half-door,  and  with  hot  and  cold  salt  water,  additional  to 
fresh  water,  in  each  compartment.  The  bathing  has  been 
systematized  so  that  every  prisoner  is  compelled  to  take  a 
bath  at  least  once  each  week  unless  excused  by  the  doctor. 
A  check  is  kept  on  each  individual  as  he  passes  into  the 
bathroom  and  gets  his  change  of  underclothing.  This  is 
but  one  of  the  many  humanizing  and  much  needed  improve- 
ments that  have  been  made,  or  are  being  made,  by  the 
present  warden. 

There  is  a  swimming  tank  in  the  upper  yard,  but  it  is 
small  and  is  not  used  save  by  the  few  men  whose  work 
permits  them  to  get  to  it  just  after  it  has  been  filled  with 
fresh  water.  But  sometimes  on  a  hot  Saturday  afternoon 
in  summer  this  tank  is  crowded.  The  jute  mill  closes  at 
2:30  on  Saturday  and  the  prisoners  congregate  in  the 
upper  yard. 

Saturday  is  the  day  of  events  at  San  Quentin.  The 
rule  is  that  the  men  may  be  passed  into  the  jute  mill  yard 


138  My  Life  in  Prison 

on  that  day  as  soon  as  they  have  completed  their  tasks  and 
cleaned  the  machinery.  There  are  signs  posted  all  over 
the  mill  warning  the  men  not  to  clean  machinery  while  it 
is  running,  but  in  spite  of  punishment  if  they  are  caught 
at  it,  a  great  many  men  persist  in  cleaning  up  while  the 
machinery  is  in  motion.  Scarcely  a  Saturday  passes  with- 
out some  man,  frequently  two  or  three,  being  caught  in 
the  machinery  and  losing  fingers  and  limbs.  I  witnessed 
several  horrible  mutilations  of  human  beings  in  the  mas- 
sive "breaking  carders"  at  the  back  end  of  the  mill. 

Quite  frequently  a  man  is  caught  by  no  fault  of  his 
own.  I  know  of  several  instances  where  men  have  shut 
down  their  machine,  and  while  at  work  cleaning  the  cogs 
at  the  far  end  or  underneath,  the  machine  has  been  started 
by  some  one  else,  the  same  as  if  a  fireman  started  a  loco- 
motive while  the  engineer  was  underneath  it  repairing  a 
break  or  hunting  for  one. 

It  has  been  claimed  that  this  dastardly  crime  has  beeri 
committed  intentionally  more  than  once,  the  enemy  of 
some  man  watching  for  the  opportunity  to  "get"  him  in 
that  way. 

Of  course,  accidents  occur  during  other  days  also.  New 
men  get  caught  in  the  machinery  or  in  the  belting  through 
inexperience  or  lack  of  proper  instruction  and  caution  as 
to  the  danger.  There  is  not  a  single  shield  on  any  of  the 
cog  mechanism  that  I  ever  saw  on  the  hundreds  of  ma- 
chines in  the  jute  mill  at  San  Quentin — certainly  not  on 
the  looms. 

An  examination  of  the  resident  physician's  official  re- 
port for  the  year  ended  June  30,  1909,  discloses  nineteen 
amputations  during  the  year,  and  this  does  not  include 
those  who  were  caught  in  the  machinery  and  escaped  with- 
out losing  bone  matter.  Probably  not  more  than  one- 
fourth  of  this  number  would  have  suffered  had  the  cog  ma- 
chinery been  provided  with  shields.  And  the  man  who  is 


Donald  Lowrie  139 

maimed  while  in  prison  goes  out  into  the  world  with  $5, 
hopeless,  friendless  and  crippled. 

It  has  been  claimed  that  men  sometimes  "jim"  them- 
selves intentionally;  that  is,  deliberately  place  a  finger  in 
the  cog  wheels  in  order  to  "beat"  a  loom.  I  know  of  one 
instance  where  this  occurred.  The  man  worked  on  the 
loom  next  to  mine  and  was  suffering  with  tuberculosis. 
Every  instant  of  the  day  was  a  physical  torture  to  him. 
One  day,  just  after  we  returned  from  dinner,  he  called  to 
me,  and  when  I  looked  toward  him  he  smiled,  a  wan,  sickly 
smile,  and  then  deliberately  placed  his  left  index  finger 
in  the  cogs.  The  smile  froze  on  his  face  as  the  finger  went 
through  and  he  turned  deathly  white.  But  he  recovered 
almost  instantly,  wrapped  a  piece  of  jute  about  the 
crushed  member,  leisurely  got  his  coat  and  reported  at 
the  office.  He  was  hurried  to  the  hospital  and  the  finger 
was  amputated  at  the  second  joint.  He  never  came  back 
to  work  in  the  mill.  But  two  years  later,  when  I  was  in 
the  hospital  with  typhoid  fever,  this  man  occupied  the 
cot  next  to  me.  He  was  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption 
and  coughed  almost  continuously.  His  relatives  learned 
of  his  condition  and  succeeded  in  getting  him  paroled. 
They  came  after  him  in  an  automobile.  It  was  the  first 
automobile  that  had  ever  been  inside  the  penitentiary  walls, 
and  was  an  object  of  great  wonder  to  the  lifers  and  other 
men  who  had  been  in  prison  for  years.  I  was  convales- 
cent at  the  time  and  watched  the  crowd  that  craned  their 
necks  from  the  yard  to  see  the  machine.  I  also  saw  poor 

P carried  out  and  deposited  in  the  back  seat  beside 

his  weeping  sister.    He  died  in  San  Francisco  three  weeks 
later. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

^  Life  in  the  penitentiary  is  not  without  its  humorous  as- 
pects. In  fact,  a  great  many  prisoners  buoy  themselves 
along  by  striving  to  see  the  bright  side  of  things,  and 
many  of  them  never  miss  an  opportunity  to  create  a  laugh. 
Smoky  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor — possibly  some  of  you 
have  discovered  that — and  I  recall  one  incident  which 
came  very  near  resulting  in  serious  trouble  for  him. 

We  had  come  up  from  the  jute  mill  in  the  first  line  one 
afternoon  and  found  the  upper  yard  comparatively  de- 
serted. We  used  to  "make"  the  first  line  whenever  we 
could  get  through  with  our  tasks  because  the  upper  yard 
was  a  pleasant  place  to  walk  in  when  the  crowd  was  not 
there.  While  we  were  walking  up  and  down  together  on 
this  particular  afternoon  we  saw  a  "fish"  coming  across 
the  garden  from  the  office.  The  Chinaman  who  had  him 
in  charge  took  him  to  the  mattress  room,  and  then  up  onto 
one  of  the  tiers  to  show  him  his  cell.  As  was  his  habit, 
Smoky  "sized  up"  the  new  arrival  critically  as  he  went  by. 

"Jus*  fell  off  a  load  o'  hay  outside  th'  front  gate,"  he 
observed,  "but  he  looks  kinder  forlorn ;  I'll  bet  one  of  them 
alfalfa  judges  has  handed  him  a  ten-spot,  'r  somethin* 
like  that.  Wait  till  he  comes  down  an'  we'll  see  if  we 
can't  cheer  him  up." 

j  Presently  the  Chinaman  reappeared,  followed  by  the 
new  prisoner.  They  stopped  quite  close  to  us  and  the 
Chinaman  gave  his  final  instructions. 

140 


Donald  Lowrle  141 

"You  no  forget,  when  bell  he  ring  you  lun  to  cell.  You 
no  lun,  no  ketchum  count.  No  ketchum  count,  ketchum 
hole." 

It  has  always  remained  a  mystery  to  me  why  they  had 
a  Chinaman  as  guide  for  new  prisoners.  He  was  trying 
to  tell  the  new  arrival  that  he  must  be  at  his  cell  promptly 
when  the  lock-up  bell  rang,  under  penalty  of  spending  the 
night  in  the  "hole"  if  he  failed  to  be  there  for  the  count. 

As  the  Chinaman  walked  away  Smoky  and  I  approached 
the  new  man,  or  rather  I  should  say  the  new  boy,  for  the 
first  thing  I  noticed  was  that  he  had  not  been  shaved  in 
the  prison  barber  shop.  There  was  no  need ;  his  face  was 
like  a  woman's  and  his  upper  lip  had  the  same  downy, 
growth  as  may  be  seen  on  nearly  any  woman's  face  if  you 
observe  from  the  right  angle.  His  eyes  were  big  and  lim- 
pid, but  without  expression.  Looking  at  them  I  was  in- 
stantly reminded  of  a  cow.  But  he  had  a  man's  physique 
— nearly  six  feet  of  it.  The  earmarks  of  the  country  were 
unmistakable.  His  feet  were  large  and  he  moved  awkward- 
ly. He  turned  in  a  half-frightened  way  when  spoken  to. 

"Let's  see  y'r  breadhooks,  kid,"  said  Smoky,  reaching 
for  the  boy's  hands  and  turning  the  palms  upward.  "Jus* 
as  I  thought,"  he  added,  turning  to  me.  "Look  at  them 
corns." 

The  hands  showed  plainly  that  the  boy  had  been  at  hard 
work. 

"What's  them  from,  th'  plow  ?"  asked  Smoky. 

"Yeh,"  replied  the  boy;  "I  worked  on  th'  ranch  ever 
since  I  was  old  enough  t'  walk." 

"An'  what  did  y'r  get  kicked  inter  this  dump  for?" 

"Oh,  I  stole  a  set  o'  harness  belongin'  t'  th'  Jones' 
ranch.  I  wanted  t'  take  Cynthia  Bell  t'  th'  circus  at  Oro- 
ville,  but  I  didn't  have  no  money,  spent  all  I  had  at  th' 
fair  a  couple  o'  weeks  before,  so  I  sneaked  over  t'  th'  Jones 
place  at  night  an'  broke  inter  th'  barn  and  got  a  set  of 


My  Life  in  Prison 

harness.  Bill  Starchly,  him  that  lives  in  Oroville,  he  told 
me  there  was  a  man  there  who  would  buy  anything  like 
that  and  say  nothin',  but  when  I  went  there  t'  get  the 
three  dollars  they  arrested  me." 

"An'  whadger  bring — er,  I  mean,  how  long  did  y'r  get  ?" 
asked  Smoky. 

"They  called  it  burglary  first  degree,  and  give  me  twelve 
years,"  replied  the  boy  dolorously.  "Jim  Peters  '11  get 
Cynthia  sure  now." 

"Well,  y'r  up  agin  it  pretty  hard,  kid,"  said  Smoky  con- 
solingly, "but  take  my  advice,  f'rget  th'  skirt.  There's 
lots  more  of  'em,  an'  I  guess  there'll  be  two  r'  three  still 
left  when  y'r  get  this  jolt  in.  Skirtetis  is  a  bad  bug  t' 
do  time  with,  an'  y'r  wanted  f'rget  y'r  ever  saw  one." 
A  sparkle  of  mischief  came  into  Smoky's  eyes  and  he 
winked  at  me. 

"Whadger  get  in  that  sack  y'r  brought  over  with  y'r 
blankets  an'  mattress?"  he  asked. 

"Extry  clothes,"  replied  the  boy. 

"I  s'pose  y'r  looked  t'  see  that  y'r  got  ev'rything  that's 
comin'  t'  you.  Y'r  sheets,  an'  towels,  an'  hairbrush, 
an'  " 

"I  didn't  get  no  sheets,"  interrupted  the  boy,  "only 
these—" 

"Y'r  didn't  get  no  sheets!"  exclaimed  Smoky  incredu- 
lously. "Are  y'r  sure?" 

"Sure  I  didn't,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Well,  whadger  think  o'  that?"  asked  Smoky,  turning 
to  me.  "That  bunch  o'  thievin'  trusties  in  th'  clothin' 
room  oughter  hit  th'  mill;  robbin'  a  feller  what's  just 
blowed  in  f'r  twelve  years."  He  turned  to  the  boy  again. 

"D'y'r  see  that  old  codger  walkin'  up  an'  down  over 
there  on  th'  porch  with  his  mitts  in  his  back  pockets?"  he 
asked,  nodding  toward  the  office.  "Well,  that's  th'  Capt'n, 
th'  best  ol'  chap  what  ever  cut  a  throat.  You  hotfoot  it 


Donald  Lowrie  143 

over  an'  tell  him  them  stiffs  did  y'r  out  o'  y'r  sheets.  He'll 
see  that  y'r  get  'em,  an'  he'll  make  it  warm  f'r  th'  dirty 
robbers." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  get  anybody  into  trouble,"  pro- 
tested the  boy,  his  inflection  showing  that  he  wanted  to 
get  what  was  due  him,  but  at  the  same  time  did  not  want 
to  do  anything  that  would  bring  punishment  on  others. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  kid.  Make  'em  come  across  with 
what's  comin'  t'  y'r.  They'll  jus'  say  it  was  an  over- 
sight; y'r  needn't  worry  about  them.  Go  ahead.  Leave 
it  t'  me  not  to  steer  y'r  wrong." 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  started  for  the 
office. 

Incidentally,  I  may  say  that  sheets  are  not  furnished 
prisoners;  just  a  straw  mattress  and  blankets. 

"Here's  where  we  see  a  circus,"  chortled  Smoky,  seiz- 
ing my  arm.  "Let's  go  over  here  under  th'  shed  an'  have 
a  reserved  seat.  I  hated  t'  run  that  ear  o'  corn  up  agin 
a  play  like  that,  but  he  was  so  green  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Gee,  but  Johnnie  '11  go  straight  up." 

At  that  time  the  Captain  of  the  Yard  was  an  old  man. 
He  had  been  a  prison  officer  nearly  all  his  life,  and  was 
what  is  known  as  "con  wise."  With  advancing  years  his 
nature  became  very  crabbed,  and,  like  nearly  all  prison  of- 
ficers, he  had  a  nickname  with  the  inmates.  He  was  known 
as  Johnnie.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  prejudices.  If  he 
fancied  a  particular  man  he  favored  him;  likewise,  if  he 
took  a  dislike  to  a  particular  man,  he  missed  no  oppor- 
tunity to  reprimand  or  punish  him.  During  half  a  dozen 
administrations  he  remained  as  Captain  of  the  Yard.  The 
present  Captain  of  the  Yard  was  his  chief  lieutenant  at 
that  time — an  apt  pupil. 

As  the  new  prisoner  drew  near  the  office  porch  the  Cap- 
tain saw  him  and  stopped  walking.  Smoky  could  hardly 
contain  himself.  "Gee,  but  I'd  like  t'  hear  that  confab," 


144  My  Life  In  Prison 

he  exclaimed.  "But  there's  Happy  Jack  standin'  in  the 
doorway,  he'll  hear  it,  an"  we'll  find  out  t'night." 

For  several  minutes  the  Captain  and  the  boy  remained 
in  conversation,  the  former  glancing  under  the  brim  of 
his  hat  toward  the  yard  where  we  were  crouched  and 
watching.  Presently  he  and  the  boy  stepped  off  the  porch 
and  entered  the  clothing  room  together.  Smoky  became 
concerned  at  once. 

"Gee,  I  hope  he  ain't  goin'  t'  put  him  in  th'  hole,"  he 
muttered.  "If  he  starts  anythin'  like  that  I'll  have  t'  go 
over  an'  square  it." 

But  when  the  boy  stepped  out  of  the  clothing  room  he 
did  not  turn  toward  the  path  leading  to  the  dungeon.  He 
and  the  Captain  remained  standing  in  conversation  for  a 
moment  and  then  the  boy  started  for  the  yard  where  we 
were  waiting.  He  had  something  under  his  arm,  some- 
thing white. 

Suddenly  Smoky  broke  into  a  fit  of  laughter;  good, 
hearty  laughter  that  it  was  a  joy  to  hear. 

"Well,  whadger  think  o5  that?"  he  exclaimed.  "If  that 
o'  codger  didn't  give  him  a  pair  o'  sheets.  That's  cer- 
tainly one  on  me.  That's  one  time  that  Johnnie  slipped 
it  over  all  right." 

The  boy  was  quite  close  now,  and  Smoky  unthinkingly 
rushed  up  to  meet  him. 

"Well,  I  see  y'r  got  'em,"  he  greeted,  "but  what  did  he 
say?" 

"Oh,  he  asked  me  a  lot  o'  questions,  an'  I  told  him  a 
kind-hearted  feller  in  th'  yard  sent  me  over  t'  get  my 
sheets,  an'  he  asked  me  who  it  was.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
know,  but  he  wanted  t'  know  what  you  looked  like,  and 
so " 

"An'  o'  course  y'r  told  him?"  interrupted  Smoky. 

"Yes.  An'  he  scratched  his  head,  an*  looked  me  all 
over,  and  then  he  took  me  in  and  give  me  th'  sheets.  After 


Donald  Lowrle  145 

we  come  out  he  told  me  t'  be  careful  who  I  talked  with, 
an'  then  he  says,  'Look  out  you  don't  lose  these  sheets, 
an'  when  you  get  back  to  the  yard  you  tell  that  kind- 
hearted  feller  to  come  over  and  get  his.' ' 

Smoky  was  still  laughing  at  the  humor  of  this  invitation 
when  he  was  "pinched." 

"Did  this  guy  chip  in  and  get  y'r  t'  come  after  them 
sheets,  too?"  inquired  the  guard,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
arm  and  looking  at  the  boy. 

"No,  he  didn't  say  anything,"  was  the  puzzled  response. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  replied  the  guard.  "Just  a  case  of  this 
smart  aleck  spending  a  night  'r  two  at  th'  springs,  I 
guess." 

In  spite  of  his  predicament  Smoky  burst  out  laughing. 
"Well,  this  is  certainly  a  fine  pickle,"  he  observed.  "The 
next  green  one  what  drives  up  an'  don't  get  his  sheets  '11 
have  t'  do  without  'em.  No  more  Good  Samaritan  stunts 
f'r  y'r  Uncle  Smokes." 

Much  concerned,  I  watched  proceedings  on  the  porch 
when  Smoky  arrived  there  in  the  custody  of  the  guard. 
He  and  the  Captain  held  a  long  conference,  with  many 
absurd  gesticulations,  waxing  warmer  and  warmer,  and 
then  Smoky  saluted  and  came  back. 

"Well,  I  had  t'  talk  like  a  Dutch  uncle,  but  I  beat  it," 
he  exclaimed  as  he  approached  us.  "At  first  he  was  strong 
f'r  havin'  me  try  th'  springs  over  night,  but  I  tol'  him 
I  knew  he  had  a  sense  o'  humor,  'r  I  wouldn't  'a'  done  such 
a  thing,  an'  after  dilly-dallyin'  with  me  's  long  's  he  could, 
t'  keep  me  guessin',  he  let  me  go.  Th'  only  thing  I'm 
sorry  f'r  now  is  that  I  didn't  ask  him  f'r  a  pair  o'  sheets, 
too,  before  I  left." 

We  were  lined  up  for  breakfast  one  morning  when  an 
amusing  incident  occurred.  The  "line-up"  takes  place 
at  the  blowing  of  a  police  whistle  a  few  minutes  before 


146  My  Life  in  Prison 

meal  time,  and  owing  to  the  narrow  limits  of  the  yard  the 
line  forms  in  convolutions ;  part  of  the  men  are  under  the 
shed,  but  the  great  majority  stand  in  the  open.  On  the 
morning  mentioned  the  weather  was  threatening,  and  just 
after  the  line  had  formed  there  was  a  sudden  shower. 
Those  men  who  were  without  protection  of  the  shed  did 
not  wait  for  permission  to  break  ranks,  but  immediately 
rushed  for  cover. 

A  new  guard,  fresh  from  the  bucolic  regions  "up  State," 
was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  dining-room  stairway  when 
this  rush  occurred.  He  had  been  on  the  job  only  a  few 
days,  and,  like  a  great  many  of  the  men  who  secure  em- 
ployment as  prison  guards,  imagined  that  we  were  a  lot 
of  murderous  thugs.  He  had  not  been  there  long  enough 
to  learn  otherwise. 

When  he  saw  that  horde  of  striped  figures  break  ranks 
and  rush  in  a  body  toward  the  shed — toward  him,  as  he 
thought — discretion  instantly  became  the  better  part  of 
valor;  it  was  better  to  be  a  living  farmer  than  a  dead 
guardsman.  He  flung  his  cane  at  the  advancing  cut- 
throats, presumably  in  the  hope  that  it  might  serve  as 
a  morsel  upon  which  they  might  stop  to  spend  the  first 
fury  of  their  thirst  for  blood,  and  then  flew  down  the 
stairs  to  the  dining  room.  Some  wit  in  the  crowd  im- 
mediately took  in  the  situation  and  shouted: 

"There  he  goes !  Head  him  off !  Stick  him  in  the  back, 
and  strike  high!" 

This  gentle  remark  served  its  purpose.  The  fleeing 
man  cast  a  despairing  glance  behind  him  and  then  took 
the  last  eight  steps  in  one  supreme  leap,  disappearing 
into  the  dining-room.  The  guards  on  duty  there  saw  him 
coming  and  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  brushed  them  off, 
managing  to  gasp  the  word  "break"  as  he  passed  each 
one.  Apparently  the  "heading-off"  process  was  upper- 
most in  his  mind,  for  he  went  through  the  long  dining- 


Donald  Lowrie  147 

room  hall  as  if  intent  on  reaching  the  Oregon  line  before 
noon.  He  gained  the  other  stairway,  ascended  it  in  four 
spasmodic  leaps,  rushed  across  the  flower  garden  and  "es- 
teaped"  through  the  front  gate.  It  was  the  only  "es- 
cape" that  "stuck"  during  my  prison  experience.  True, 
he  came  back  and  gave  himself  up,  but  the  warden  was 
charitable  and  refused  to  take  him  in. 

By  shouting  "break"  as  he  passed  through  the  mess 
hall  he  succeeded  in  stirring  up  quite  a  commotion.  The 
mess  hall  guards  imagined  that  some  kind  of  a  riot  or 
"break"  was  in  progress  in  the  yard,  and  came  rushing 
pell-mell  up  the  stairs,  prepared  to  put  up  the  fight  of 
their  lives.  They  found  the  men  crowded  under  the  shed 
and  watching  the  rain.  It  required  a  great  deal  of  ex- 
plaining to  straighten  matters,  and  then  everybody 
laughed. 

And  while  writing  about  guards  I  want  to  say  that 
nearly  all  of  the  men  I  saw  acting  in  that  capacity  at 
San  Quentin  were  fair  and  conscientious  men.  Of  course, 
there  were  exceptions ;  that  goes  without  saying.  I  recall 
one  guard  who  revelled  in  his  "little  brief  authority"  and 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  insulting  prisoners.  He  never 
missed  an  opportunity  to  reprimand  a  man,  and  always 
with  abusive  language.  One  day  he  called  "Cockey" 
Hines  a  "dirty  bum." 

"You  never  did  a  day's  work  in  your  life,"  said  the 
guard. 

"You're  nothin'  but  a  dirty  bum  outside,  and  it's  me 
that  knows  it.  And  you  call  yourself  a  thief!  Huh!  You 
couldn't  lift  a  lead  nickel  out  of  a  barrel." 

"Cockey"  worked  in  "sack  alley"  and  was  a  fairly  in- 
dustrious man.  He  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  a  "call- 
down,"  certainly  not  such  a  one  as  this.  And  he  was 
recognized  as  one  of  the  cleverest  pickpockets  in  the  bus- 
iness. When  the  guard  sneered  at  his  ability  as  a  thief 


148  My  Life  In  Prison 

"Cockey"  was  hurt.  Nothing  hurts  a  professional  crook 
so  much  as  to  be  regarded  as  a  "mutt"  or  "dub."  So 
"Cockey"  brooded  over  the  insult  and  determined  to  "get 
even."  All  that  morning  he  attended  to  his  work  assid- 
uously, though  it  was  noted  that  he  was  particularly  def- 
erential to  the  guard  who  had  reprimanded  him.  On  the 
slightest  pretext  "Cockey"  sought  this  guard  and  asked 
for  instructions,  buzzing  about  the  man  obsequiously. 
Early  that  afternoon,  however,  "Cockey"  ceased  these  at- 
tentions. He  asked  and  received  permission  to  leave  his 
work  for  a  few  minutes  and  was  "passed"  to  the  superin- 
tendent's office  at  the  farther  end  of  the  mill.  Returning 
from  there,  he  sneered  openly  at  the  guard,  so  openly 
that  the  guard  decided  to  "run  him  in." 

"You  come  with  me,"  he  ordered;  "I'll  teach  you  a 
thing  or  two." 

"Cockey"  made  no  protest;  in  fact,  he  obeyed  with 
alacrity  and  accompanied  the  officer  willingly. 

Arrived  at  the  office  of  the  superintendent,  the  guard 
registered  his  complaint  with  that  officer. 

"This  guy  is  altogether  too  fresh  and  keeps  giving  me 
the  dog  eye,"  he  complained. 

"But  didn't  you  call  him  a  bum  this  morning?  Didn't 
you  tell  him  he  wasn't  even  a  good  thief?"  asked  the  su- 
perintendent. 

"Sure  I  did,"  replied  the  guard;  "and  what  of  it?" 

"Only  this,"  said  the  superintendent;  "I  don't  believe 
you  or  any  other  man  has  the  right  to  talk  that  way  to  a 
prisoner.  It's  like  hitting  him  with  his  hands  tied  behind 
him.  You  wouldn't  talk  to  a  man  like  that  anywhere  else 
and  expect  to  get  away  with  it,  would  you?" 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  you  want  to  stick  up  for  a  'con' 
against  an  officer,  why,  all  right,"  was  the  reply ;  "but  I'll 
see  the  Captain  about  it." 

"Very  well,"  returned  the  superintendent,  "and  while 


Donald  Lowrie 

you're  seeing  him  you  might  ask  him  to  get  your  watch 
and  purse  for  you." 

"My  watch  and  purse?"  asked  the  guard.  "What  do 
you  mean?" 

But  even  as  he  asked  the  question  his  hands  sought  his 
pockets  and  he  discovered  that  he  had  been  robbed. 

"They're  gone!"  he  ejaculated.  "My  watch  and  purse 
are  gone!" 

The  superintendent  smiled.  "Perhaps  the  Captain  will 
find  them  for  you,  so  long  as  you  want  to  go  over  my 
head." 

This  was  just  enough  suggestion  to  arouse  the  guard's 
curiosity. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  B ?"  he  asked.     "I've 

certainly  been  touched  for  my  watch  and  purse.    Do  you 
know  where  they  are?" 

"How  much  money  was  there  in  your  purse?"  asked 
the  superintendent. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I'd  say  about  eighteen  dol- 
lars," was  the  reply.  "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Just  look  this  over  and  see  if  it's  all 
there." 

The  superintendent  drew  his  hand  from  his  coat  pocket, 
where  he  had  been  holding  it,  and  handed  the  guard  his 
watch  and  purse. 

The  man  was  so  astonished  that  he  couldn't  speak,  but 
stood  gulping  and  looking  from  one  face  to  the  other. 
Presently  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  say:  "I'm  certainly 

much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  B ,  but  how  on  earth  did 

you  get  them?    Some  'con'  muster  'touched'  me  for  them, 
and  I  certainly  thought  they  were  gone  for  good." 

"Can't  you  guess  how  I  got  them?"  asked  the  superin- 
tendent. 

The  guard  looked  perplexed  for  a  moment,  and  then  his 
eyes  changed.  He  regarded  "Cockey"  questioningly. 


150  My  Life  in  Prison 

"Yes,  'Cockey'  dipped  you  for  them,"  said  the  superin- 
tendent. "Of  course,  I  can  report  him  for  it  and  have  him 
jacketed,  and  of  course  you  can  do  it  if  you  want  to, 
but  if  I  were  you  I'd  think  this  thing  over  and  see  if 
you  can't  treat  the  men  a  little  better  from  now  on.  I've 
had  more  trouble  from  your  section  than  from  any  other 
part  of  the  mill,  and  I  don't  believe  the  men  are  any 
worse  there  than  they  are  anywhere  else." 

The  guard  swallowed  two  or  three  times,  struggling 
with  the  impulse  that  had  assailed  him.  Finally  he  turned 
to  "Cockey." 

"This  is  a  new  thing  for  me  to  say  to  a  'con,5 "  he 
blurted  out,  "but  I  got  to  hand  it  to  you;  you're  all 
right.  We'll  see  if  we  can't  get  along  better  after  this." 

Of  course,  the  story  was  too  good  to  keep.  It  got  out 
and  the  guard  was  subjected  to  a  great  deal  of  chaffing. 
He  took  it  good-naturedly,  however,  and  from  that  day 
he  was  "Cockey's"  friend,  and  when  "Cockey's"  term  ex- 
pired got  him  a  position  on  a  steamer  sailing  for  Aus- 
tralia, where  he  belonged. 

This  incident  is  not  without  displeasing  features,  but 
it  occurred  just  as  related,  and  the  guard,  without  sacri- 
ficing a  particle  of  dignity  or  respect,  was  the  friend  as 
well  as  the  keeper  of  the  prisoners  from  that  day. 

Smoky  had  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  the  cell  at 
night  with  a  sack  of  choice  tobacco,  and  I  had  frequently 
wondered  where  he  got  it.  The  prisoners  receive  a  ration 
of  cheap  tobacco  each  week,  and  are  permitted  to  pur- 
chase a  limited  quantity  through  the  commissary,  if  they 
have  the  money  to  their  credit.  But  the  regular  issue,  as 
^rell  as  the  purchased  article,  is  a  standard  brand,  and  to 
have  any  other  kind  of  tobacco  is  a  breach  of  the  rules, 
indicating  crookedness. 

Although  I  wondered  at  Smoky  always  having  this 
choice  brand  of  tobacco,  I  knew  enough  not  to  ask  him 


Donald  Lowrie  151 

where  he  got  it.  That  is  the  one  unpardonable  offence 
in  the  penitentiary,  asking  another  man,  "Where  did  you 
get  it?"  when  he  shares  a  contraband  article  with  you. 
But  one  night  Smoky  voluntarily  told  me  where  he  was 
getting  this  tobacco. 

"A  funny  thing  happened  in  th'  mill  t'day,"  he  began. 
"Of  course,  y'r've  wondered  where  I  was  gettin'  this  weed. 
Well,  I've  killed  th'  goose  what  laid  th'  golden  egg,  an* 
I'll  have  t'  rustle  up  some  new  leak  now.  Y'r  know  big 

Jim  S ?"  he  inquired,  naming  one  of  the  guards,  a 

big,  good-natured  fellow. 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  he  was  in  th'  habit  o'  carryin'  his  terbaccer  in 
th'  side  pocket  o'  his  coat,  an'  I  was  in  th'  habit  o'  helpin* 
m'self  t'  it  ev'ry  two  'r  three  days.  I  often  wondered  why 
he  didn't  get  next.  He'd  come  inter  th'  mill  in  th'  morn- 
in'  with  a  full  sack  o'  weed  in  his  pocket,  an'  at  night  it'd 
be  gone. 

"But  he  never  seemed  t'  get  wise.  Th'  next  mornin' 
he'd  have  another  sack  an'  act  's  if  he  never  missed  th' 
one  I  got.  Him  an'  me  're  great  friends,  y'r  know,  an' 
it  used  t'  hurt  m'  conscience  at  first,  but  after  a  time  I 
got  so  that  when  I  saw  him  come  in  in  th'  mornin'  with 
a  fresh  sack  I  considered  it  as  mine,  an'  before  noon  it 
would  be.  But  it's  all  off  now.  I  queered  th'  game 
m'self. 

"This  mornin'  Jim  came  up  t'  me  an'  says,  'Say, 
Smoky,  I  jus'  got  hip  t'  somethin';  there's  some  guy 
touchin'  me  f'r  m'  terbaccer  right  along.  I  been  won- 
derin'  where  it  was  goin'.  I  knew  I  didn't  smoke  it,  but  I 
never  thought  I  was  bein'  'touched'  f'r  it.  Yesterday  I 
tried  a  scheme.  I  came  in  with  a  new  sack  in  m'  pocket 
on  purpose,  an'  at  noon  it  was  gone;  an'  I  didn't  have 
m'  coat  off  all  mornin'.  So  it's  a  dead  shot  somebody's 
touchin'  me  f'r  it.  Now,  I  don't  want  t'  git  nobody  in 


152  My  Life  in  Prison 

trouble,  but  I  would  like  to  ketch  th'  feller  what's  get- 
tin'  it,  an'  I've  got  a  pretty  good  scheme.' 

"Of  course  I  listened  t'  all  this  sympathetic  like,  an* 
said  it  was  a  dirty  shame,  an'  all  that,  an'  then  I  asked 
him  what  his  scheme  was. 

"  'Well,  I'm  goin'  to  put  this  new  sack  in  m'  coat  pocket 
an'  leave  th'  string  hangin'  out,  so's  ev'rybody  can  see 
it.  But  I  got  a  safety  pin  here,  an'  we'll  pin  th'  string 
t'  th'  linin'  of  th'  pocket,  an'  of  course  when  the  guy  tries 
t'  get  th'  sack  he'll  get  th'  surprise  o'  his  life  instead,  an 
I'll  nail  him.' 

"  'Fine,'  I  says,  pretendin'  t'  warm  up  t'  th'  plan. 
'Some  mutt'll  fall  f'r  that,  sure's  y'r  born.'  But  o'  course 
I  was  laughin'  up  my  sleeve  all  th'  time. 

"Well,  th'  funny  part  o'  it  was  I  helped  him  pin  th' 
sack  o'  weed  inter  his  pocket.  But  instead  o'  pinnin'  th' 
sack  itself  I  pinned  th'  string,  lettin'  th'  end  hang  out 
so's  ev'rybody  could  see  it.  He  was  tickled  t'  death,  an' 
put  his  hand  down  an'  felt  th'  sack,  an'  then  started 
hikin'  up  and  down  th'  aisle.  Ev'ry  once  in  a  while  he'd 
go  an'  stand  close  t'  some  feller's  loom  an'  throw  his 
side  pocket  up  toward  th'  guy  an'  look  th'  other  way. 
Then  he'd  go  back  in  th*  aisle  an'  walk  a  few  steps  an* 
take  a  side  glance  down  t'  see  if  th'  string  was  still  there. 
Th'  play  was  too  good  t'  keep  t'  m'self,  an'  I  put  most 
of  th'  gang  next.  Ev'rybody  was  pretendin'  t'  work,  but 
they  was  all  watchin'  Jim. 

"Say,  it  was  great.  He'd  go  up  t'  a  guy  an'  rub  all 
around  him,  an'  bump  him,  an'  look  th'  other  way,  an* 
leave  his  coat  hang  loose  on  that  side,  an  then  he'd  mosey 
off  an'  take  a  gander  t'  see  if  th'  string  was  still  there. 
This  kept  up  f'r  a  couple  of  hours,  an'  I  began  t'  see  that 
Jim  was  gettin'  desperate.  Gener'ly  a  man  don't  want  t' 
be  'touched,'  but  Jim  was  jus'  dyin'  t'  have  somebody  try 
t'  lift  that  sack  o'  terbaccer.  I  was  afraid  m'self  that 


Donald  Lowrie  153 

some  mutt  'd  try  it  an'  spoil  everything,  but  nobody  did. 
Along  'bout  11  o'clock  I  went  over  t'  'Roguey'  Smith's 
loom  an'  put  him  next.  'When  he  comes  around  again, 
"Roguey,"  I  says,  'get  it;  it's  pretty  near  dinner  time.' 

"Pretty  soon  Jim  strolled  up  t'  'Roguey'  an'  stalled 
around,  lookin'  at  th'  ceilin'  an'  all  that,  an'  'Roguey' 
goes  inter  th'  pocket  with  his  loom  scissors  an'  cuts  th' 
string  below  th'  pin  an'  yaffles  th'  sac.  'Nice  day,  ain't 
it,  Jim?'  he  says,  an'  then  shoots  round  back  o'  his  loom. 
Jim  hung  around  a  few  minutes  and  then  walked  off. 
When  he  got  in  th'  aisle  he  glanced  down,  an'  there  was 
th'  string  still  there.  Of  course,  we  all  knew  what  had 
happened,  an'  was  watchin',  hopin'  he'd  put  his  hand  down 
an'  feel  f'r  th'  sack.  I  guess  it  must  'a'  been  one  o'  them 
cases  o'  mental  telegraphin'  'r  somethin'  like  that.  Jim 
walked  t'  th'  end  of  th'  aisle  an'  then  started  back,  twirlin' 
his  cane  an'  whistlin'  an'  lookin'  innocent  like,  an'  then 
all  o'  a  sudden  he  puts  his  hand  down  t'  feel  f'r  th'  sack. 

"Say,  I  wish  y'r  could  'a'  seen  th'  look  on  his  face  when 
he  got  wise.  But  I'll  give  him  credit  f'r  presence  o' 
mind.  He  tumbled  in  a  second,  smiled  t'  himself  an' 
walked  right  on.  Th'  gang  had  been  hopin'  that  he'd  do 
th'  clown  act,  turn  his  pocket  inside  out,  an'  all  that, 
but  he  didn't.  Pretty  soon  he  moseyed  up  t'  where  I 
was.  I  pretended  t'  be  workin'  's  if  I  was  gettin'  wages. 

"  'Say,  Smoky,'  he  says,  'how  much  longer  have  y'r 
got?' 

'"Thirteen  months,'  says  I.     'Why?' 

"  'Well,  I'm  goin'  t'  throw  up  m'  j  ob  when  you  go,  an' 
we'll  open  up  a  detective  office,  f'r  we're  certainly  th' 
candy  kids  when  it  comes  t'  that  kind  o'  work;  we've 
got  Sherlock  Holmes  backed  clean  inter  th'  river.' 

"  'How's  that?'  says  I,  all  innocent  like. 

"And  then  he  took  me  t'  one  side  an'  showed  me  th' 
cut  string.  I  looked  at  it  close,  an'  then  I  looks  up  at 


154  My  Life  In  Prison 

him  an'  says :  'Cut  with  a  pair  o'  scissors  by  a  man  with 
two  hands  an'  dressed  in  a  striped  suit.  Call  in  Watson 
at  onct ;  but  whatever  y'r  do  don't  let  th'  perlice  depart- 
ment know.  I'll  dispatch  a  telegram  t*  Paris  immejiate- 
ly,  an'  we'll  leave  on  th'  next  train  f'r  th'  city.' 

"He  took  this  all  right  an'  seemed  t'  see  th'  joke.  After 
he  was  gone  I  went  over  t'  'Roguey'  an'  got  th'  sack  o* 
terbaccer,  an'  at  noon  I  gave  it  back  t'  Jim. 

"'Where'd  y'r  get  it?'  he  asked. 

"  'Never  mind,'  I  says,  'only  y'r  won't  be  "touched" 
no  more,  Jim.' 

"This  afternoon  I  passed  th'  word  t'  th'  gang  t'  leave 
Jim's  terbaccer  alone,  so  it's  up  t'  me  now  t'  look  up 
another  mark." 

While  Smoky  had  been  beguiling  us  with  this  tale  I 
had  heard  a  whistle.  It  sounded  like  a  boat  whistle,  and 
as  soon  as  he  finished  I  asked  him  about  it. 

"Did  you  hear  that  whistle  a  few  minutes  ago,  Smoky?" 
I  inquired.  "I  have  heard  it  several  times  at  night.  What 
is  it?" 

"Oh,  ain't  y'r  got  next  t'  that  yet?"  he  replied.  "Why, 
that's  th'  Caroline,  th'  boat  that  brings  th'  beans  an* 
things  here.  An',  say,  th'  guy  what  owns  her,  Cap'n 
Leale,  is  a  prince.  Ain't  y'r  never  hear3  of  him?  He's 
always  doin'  somethin'  f'r  us  cons — gettin'  fellers  jobs 
when  they  go  out  an'  helpin'  'em  along  afterward.  An' 
don't  y'r  remember  th'  fresh  fruit  we  had  five  'r  six  times 
las'  summer?  Well,  he  brought  that.  He  gets  it  from 
th'  commission  merchants  on  Saturday  nights,  when  it 
'd  spoil  before  Monday,  an'  brings  it  over  here.  There 
is  one  right  guy  that  y'r  certainly  ought  t'  know.  But 
what  gets  me  is  how  he  stays  with  it.  He's  been  thrown 
'down  by  twenty  dif'rent  guys,  an'  yet  he  comes  right 
back  an'  helps  th'  next  feller  that  asks  him. 

"But  it's  nearly  9  o'clock.    I  can  tell  t>y  th'  way  things 


Donald  Lowrie  155 

are  quietin*  down;  let's  turn  in.     I'll  tell  y'r  more  about 
th'  Cap'n  some  other  time.    I  wonder  how  th'  poor  Kid  is 

'tnight?     Jim  S was  awful  good  t'  him  in  th'  mill, 

an*  he'd  'a'  enjoyed  hearin'  about  him." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

After  eighteen  months  in  the  jute  mill  I  was  sent  for 
by  the  turnkey  one  morning  and  assigned  to  work  in  the 
clothing  room,  where  incoming  and  outgoing  prisoners 
are  dressed,  and  where  those  undergoing  sentence  draw 
their  supply  of  clothes.  The  assignment  was  a  complete 
surprise  to  me.  I  had  not  asked  for  a  change  of  work, 
not  because  I  did  not  want  it,  but  because  I  did  not  think 
there  was  any  chance  of  my  getting  it.  There  were  too 
many  men  who  had  been  in  prison  much  longer  and  who 
were  more  deserving  than  I.  I  knew  scores  of  men  in 
the  jute  mill  who  had  worked  there  year  after  year,  some 
of  them  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  many  of  whom  had 
apnlied  for  other  work. 

Theoretically,  a  man  is  supposed  to  get  a  "job"  after 
he  has  given  faithful  service  in  the  mill  for  a  number  of 
years  and  if  his  record  has  been  clean  otherwise.  But 
pprn^ritv  in  point  of  service  did  not  seem  to  have  much 
weifht  in  those  days.  Men  were  given  the  choice  posi- 
tions indiscriminatelv,  and  prisoners  with  a  "pull"  did  not 
fro  to  the  jute  mill  at  all,  but  were  assigned  to  the  dining 
rooms  or  other  "soft"  places.  Of  course,  this  led  to  ill- 
feel  in?. 

Men  who  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  for  years 
quite  naturally  resented  seeing  a  new  prisoner  given  easy 
employment  and  mollycoddled  by  the  officials.  At  pres- 
ent each  prisoner  must  spend  at  least  six  months  in  the 

156 


Donald  Lowrie  157 

jute  mill,  and  a  consistent  method  of  giving  the  "old- 
timers"  the  first  chance  at  other  work  is  followed.  This 
is  no  more  than  right,  and  it  certainly  tends  to  make  the 
prison  discipline  better.  Once  the  body  of  men  feel  that 
the  officials  play  no  favorites  they  respect  and  have  con- 
fidence in  them  accordingly. 

Of  course,  there  are  exceptions.  Certain  individuals 
imagine  they  are  more  deserving  than  the  others  and  think 
they  are  dealt  with  harshly  because  they  are  compelled 
to  work  in  the  jute  mill.  But  so  long  as  the  jute  mill  is 
there,  save  when  a  prisoner  is  sick,  I  believe  every  man 
should  do  his  share  of  work  in  it. 

At  the  time  I  was  asigned  to  the  clothing  room,  it  was 
under  the  supervision  of  the  turnkey,  a  small,  spare  man 
who  chewed  a  cigar  all  day  and  didn't  say  much.  In  a 
few  brief  sentences  he  acquainted  me  with  the  nature  of 
my  duties.  I  was  to  keep  account  of  all  supplies  received 
and  issued  and  remain  on  duty  in  the  clothing  room  all 
day. 

"You  will  get  up  half  an  hour  before  the  bell  rings 
in  the  morning,  and  you  are  now  on  the  second  lock-up," 
he  informed  me.  "You  will  also  move  into  a  single  cell 
and  eat  in  the  'Red  Front.' " 

There  were  a  number  of  other  perquisites  that  went 
with  the  job,  and  the  contrast  to  my  previous  way  of  liv- 
ing was  marked.  It  was  almost  like  getting  a  pardon.  At 
the  same  time  I  regretted  leaving  Smoky  and  my  other 
cellmates.  True,  it  had  been  miserable  and  unhealthy  in 
that  small  "tank"  with  four  other  men,  and  a  "single" 
cell  was  considered  a  great  privilege,  but  I  had  grown 
attached  to  them,  and  familiarity  with  the  discomforts  of 
the  "tank"  had  bred  indifference. 

But  when  I  went  to  the  "Red  Front"  at  noon  and  ate 
Setter  food,  served  on  "outside"  tableware,  with  a  table- 
cloth and  with  permission  to  talk  during  the  meal,  I 


158  My  Life  in  Prison 

could  not  help  feeling  elated.     Still,  there  was  no  element 
of  self-glorification  in  my  feelings. 

It  is  a  peculiar  fact  that  a  great  many  of  the  men  who 
succeed  in  getting  office  or  "bonton"  employment  at  San 
Quentin  immediately  hold  themselves  superior  to  their 
fellows,  some  of  them  even  going  so  far  as  to  strut  and 
patronize. 

I  made  up  my  mind  that  first  day  that  the  fact  of  my 
promotion  should  not  alter  my  relations  with  anyone,  a 
resolution  to  which  I  easily  adhered  during  all  the  years 
that  followed,  and  which  can  be  attested  by  the  thou- 
sands of  men  who  came  and  went  subsequent  to  that  time 
— without  exception. 

I  deem  this  explanation  necessary  at  this  point,  be- 
cause a  few  persons  who  don't  know  anything  about  the 
facts — how  often  persons  of  superficial  knowledge  or  no 
knowledge  of  certain  conditions  are  prone  to  assume  the 
right  to  judge — have  been  inclined  to  criticise  adversely. 
I  have  been  accused  of  self-righteousness.  Nothing  could 
be  more  galling. 

The  first  "fish"  who  came  in  after  I  went  to  work 
in  the  clothing  room  was  No.  19723,  a  condemned  pris- 
oner from  Sacramento.  As  he  stepped  into  the  room  in 
charge  of  the  turnkey's  assistant  I  was  instructed  how 
to  measure  him  for  his  clothes.  The  man  whose  place  I 
was  to  take — he  had  three  days  left  to  serve  on  a  three- 
year  sentence — then  asked  the  new  arrival  how  long  a 
sentence  he  had  received.  The  man  made  no  reply,  but 
smiled  wanly. 

"He's  for  over  across,"  said  the  officer  who  had  him 
in  charge,  nodding  toward  the  condemned  row. 

At  first  I  did  not  comprehend  what  was  meant,  but 
when  I  saw  the  serious  look  which  replaced  the  smile 
that  had  wreathed  my  predecessor's  face  as  he  had  asked 


Donald  Lowrie 

the  question  I  knew.    To  say  that  I  was  aghast  is  putting 
it  mildly.    It  was  like  a  sudden  blow  in  the  face. 

I  had  given  no  thought  to  the  fact  that  I  should  come 
into  such  close  relationship  with  men  who  were  destined 
for  "the  rope,"  and  it  seemed  an  inauspicious  beginning 
in  my  new  duties.  By  what  strange  freak  of  chance  had 
it  come  about  that  I  should  be  assigned  to  the  clothing 
room  just  in  time  to  measure  and  give  a  condemned  man 
his  prison  clothes?  I  didn't  like  it.  It  made  me  uncom- 
fortable. I  felt  resentful.  Somehow  I  felt  like  a  parti- 
ceps  criminis — a  cog  in  the  murder  machine.  I  remember 
a  slight  nausea  and  an  impulse  to  "throw  up  the  job." 
But  it  passed — that  "Red  Front'"  meal  was  still  under- 
going the  pleasing  process  of  assimilation,  and  it  had  been 
the  first  approach  to  a  "square  meal"  in  eighteen  months. 
This  is  merely  the  old,  old  story.  One  man's  meat  must 
ever  be  another  man's  poison.  I  deluded  myself  with  the 
moth-eaten  sophistry,  "If  I  don't  do  it  someone  else  will ; 
and  I'm  not  to  blame  because  they  have  sent  this  man 
here  to  be  hanged." 

After  he  had  gone  to  the  bathroom,  still  in  charge  of 
the  officer,  who  watched  every  move,  I  turned  to  the  short- 
termer. 

"Does  this  happen  very  often?"  I  asked. 
"Oh,  no.  Maybe  once  a  month.  We  get  ten  or  twelve 
men  for  'the  rope'  in  a  year,  but  most  of  'em  beat  it  on 
appeal;  they  don't  hang  more  than  three  or  four  out  of 
every  twelve.  You  don't  want  to  mind  a  little  thing  ilke 
that  •  you'll  soon  get  used  to  it,  and  you'll  see  lots  worse. 
Wait 'till  some  of  these  guys  come  up  out  of  the  dungeon 
after  a  week  in  the  jacket.  Seeing  a  condemned  man  is 
nothing  alongside  of  that." 

Later  that  day  I  learned  what  the  condemned  man  had 
done. 
,     In  company  with  a  boy  he  had  burglarized  a  residence 


160  My  Life  in  Prison 

at  Sacramento,  the  boy  being  left  outside  to  watch.  The 
man  of  the  house  came  home  unexpectedly  and  caught 
the  boy  on  the  front  porch  and  tried  to  hold  him  while 
calling  for  the  police.  Wardrip — the  condemned  man — 
had  heard  the  scuffle  and  had  rushed  to  the  boy's  assis- 
tance. The  property  owner  had  paid  no  heed  to  the  com- 
mand that  he  desist,  and  Wardrip  shot  him,  both  he  and 
the  boy  escaping  in  the  dark.  When  the  police  arrived 
they  found  the  wounded  man  lying  on  the  porch.  He 
made  a  broken  statement  of  what  had  occurred  and  then 
idied.  The  city  had  been  scoured  for  the  culprits,  but 
in  vain. 

About  two  months  afterward  a  man  undergoing  a  sen- 
tence of  thirty  days  at  Salt  Lake  City  for  vagrancy  told 
his  cellmate  that  he  was  the  man  who  had  committed  the 
murder  at  Sacramento  a  few  weeks  before. 

It  is  surprising  how  frequently  this  occurs.  Men  with 
a  price  over  their  heads  have  done  this  same  thing  time 
and  time  again,  and  always  with  the  same  result.  There 
seems  to  be  something  in  the  deadly  monotony  of  a  cell 
'that  unlocks  the  innermost  recesses  of  a  man's  mind. 
Wardrip  told  his  cellmate,  a  stranger,  a  bird  of  pasage, 
what  he  had  done.  The  cellmate  promptly  told  the  j  ailer. 
Communication  was  had  with  the  Sacramento  officials  and 
a  man  was  sent  on  with  requisition  papers.  Too  late, 
Wardrip  tried  to  deny  that  he  was  the  man,  but  he  had 
'divulg-ed  little  details  that  only  the  murderer  could  know. 
Other  evidence  was  gathered  against  him — some  of  the 
proceeds  of  the  burglary  were  found  in  his  possession,  I 
believe.  The  officials  tried  in  every  conceivable  way  to 
make  him  tell  who  the  boy  was,  but  he  remained  mute 
on  this  point  to  the  end.  He  was  tried  and  convicted 
and  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

But  I  also  learned  that  his  case  had  been  appealed.  It 
would  be  several  months  at  least  before  the  sentence  could 


Donald  Lowrie  161 

be  carried  out,  and  there  was  a  possibility  of  a  reversal 
of  the  judgment.  That  made  me  feel  better. 

My  first  week  in  the  clothing  room  was  an  interesting 
experience.  I  learned  many  new  facts  concerning  the 
prison  and  made  a  number  of  new  acquaintances.  While 
working  in  the  jute  mill  I  had  frequently  endeavored  to 
learn  what  the  population  of  the  prison  was,  but  had 
never  been  able  to  get  anything  closer  than  an  estimate. 
The  men  in  the  mill  have  no  means  of  knowing  such  things. 

But  the  clothing  room  was  directly  connected  with  the 
turnkey's  office,  where  the  official  records  are  kept  and 
where  the  "census  chart"  is  revised  each  night.  There 
were  1,450  prisoners  on  hand.  This  was  in  the  fall  of 
1902.  At  present  the  population  is  close  to  2,000. 

The  method  of  "receiving"  new  prisoners  interested 
me  at  first,  but  I  soon  became  indifferent  to  it.  The 
Sheriff,  or  Sheriffs — sometimes  two  officers  accompany 
a  prisoner  to  the  penitentiary — first  delivered  the  com- 
mitment to  the  captain  of  the  yard.  This  officer,  upon 
satisfying  himself  that  the  papers  were  in  order,  would 
authorize  the  turnkey  to  recive  and  "put  through"  the 
new  arrival. 

But  when  two  or  three  new  prisoners  arrived  con- 
incidently  the  Sheriff  or  Sheriffs  would  be  called  into  the 
turnkey's  for  the  purpose  of  identifying  their  respective 
charges.  This  is  necessary  to  prevent  exchange  of  iden- 
tities. Prisoners  have  been  known  to  adopt  each  other's 
names  while  on  the  way  to  the  penitentiary. 

An  interesting  case  of  this  kind  occurred  some  years 
ago  in  Pennsylvania.  Two  men  were  on  their  way  to 
prison,  handcuffed  together  and  in  charge  of  a  deputy 
sheriff.  While  on  the  journey  they  concocted  the  plan 
of  exchanging  identities. 

The  deputy  who  had  them  in  charge  merely  knew  that 
he  had  John  Smith  and  William  Jones ;  Smith  to  be  con- 


My  Life  in  Prison 

fined  for  fen  years  and  Jones  for  two  years.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  prison  Jones  answered  to  the  name  of 
Smith,  assuming  the  ten-year  sentence,  and  it  was  taken 
<  for  granted  that  the  other  man — the  real  Smith — was 
Jones.  At  the  expiration  of  two  years  Smith,  who  had 
been  committed  for  ten  years  by  the  court,  was  discharged. 
Then  Jones,  who  had  been  entered  on  the  register  as 
Smith,  ten  years,  protested  that  his  time  was  up,  that  a 
mistake  had  been  made  in  entering  him  as  Smith,  and  that 
he  had  received  a  two-year  sentence. 

While  in  prison  he  had  kept  himself  as  inconspicuous 
as  possible,  and  had  been  known  exclusively  by  his  prison 
number.  Investigation  proved  his  contention  to  be  cor- 
rect, and  it  was  impossible  to  establish  collusion  between 
him  and  the  real  Smith.  After  a  short  litigation  the  pris- 
on authorities  were  compelled  to  release  him.  Meanwhile 
the  real  Smith  had  disappeared  and  he  has  never  been 
captured. 

After  the  new  arrival  has  been  identified  he  is  sub- 
jected to  a  thorough  "frisking."  Everything  which  he 
may  have  in  his  pockets  is  placed  on  a  desk  before  him, 
the  money  and  valuables  by  themselves,  and  he  is  then  re- 
quired to  sign  an  "inventory"  which  states  the  amount  of 
money  and  the  nature  of  the  valuables.  He  is  then  es- 
corted to  the  clothing  room,  where  he  is  measured  to  as- 
certain what  size  clothing  he  requires.  While  this  cloth- 
ing is  being  branded  he  is  taken  to  the  bathroom,  where 
he  is  compelled  to  strip  in  the  presence  of  an  officer  and 
is  subjected  to  further  examination,  first  to  see  that  he 
has  no  contagious  skin  disease,  second  to  make  sure  that 
he  has  nothing  concealed  in  the  crevices  and  hollows  of 
his  body.  In  case  of  eczema  the  physician  is  called  to 
examine  him,  and,  if  necessary,  he  is  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital. 

If  h!s  clothing  is  worth  saving  it  is  taken  to  another 


Donald  Lowrie  163 

room  and  thoroughly  searched.  If  it  is  not  worth  sav- 
ing it  is  stuffed  into  a  sack  and  carried  to  the  furnace 
and  burned.  A  great  deal  of  care  has  to  be  exercised  to 
see  that  no  "citizen's"  clothing  gets  out  of  the  possession 
of  the  proper  custodian. 

Experience  has  made  it  imperative  that  all  clothing 
taken  from  new  prisoners  and  placed  in  stock  shall  be 
very  carefully  examined.  Some  years  ago  the  "dope" 
fiends  learned  that  the  clothing  of  incoming  prisoners 
was  not  subjected  to  close  scrutiny;  that  it  was  merely 
taken  to  the  supply  room  and  placed  in  stock  to  be  given 
to  some  discharged  prisoner  in  lieu  of  a  new  suit.  Many 
discharged  prisoners  prefer  second-hand  clothing;  it  does 
not  make  them  so  conspicuous. 

A  clever  case  of  smuggling  resulted  from  this  lax  sys- 
tem. One  of  the  bushelmen  in  the  tailor  shop  sent  word, 
by  an  outgoing  prisoner,  to  a  friend  who  was  in  the  Coun- 
ty Jail  at  San  Francisco,  awaiting  sentence  for  grand 
larceny,  telling  him  to  get  a  supply  of  morphine  and  sew 
it  into  the  pads  at  the  shoulders  of  his  coat.  This  was 
done,  and  when  the  man  arrived  his  coat  was  sent  to 
the  supply  room  for  the  usual  renovating  process.  The 
bushelman  was  on  the  watch  for  it  and  cut  open  the  seams 
and  got  the  "plant." 

This  occurred  some  time  after  "dope"  had  been 
"stamped  out"  of  the  prison.  In  a  few  days  the  old- 
line  officers  detected  the  presence  of  the  poison — it  was 
apparent  in  the  actions  of  the  men  who  were  using  it. 

Arrests  and  squeezings  in  the  jacket  followed.  "Con- 
fessions" were  secured  and  more  arrests  were  made.  Fi- 
nally the  "investigation,"  through  repeated  "squealing," 
narrowed  down  to  the  man  who  had  brought  in  the  "dope." 
He  was  forced  to  divulge  the  plot.  He  was  then  sent  to 
the  "incorrigibles,"  where  he  remained  for  about  eighteen 
months,  and  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors  forfeited 


164  My  Life  in  Prison 

his  credits — that  is,  he  will  have  to  serve  his  sentence  of 
seven  years  "solid." 

The  bushelman,  who  was  serving  twelve  years,  was  de- 
prived of  two  years'  credits  and  otherwise  punished.  The 
other  men  involved  were  also  punished.  The  portion  of 
the  morphine  still  unused  was  located,  through  "confes- 
sions," and  destroyed.  Since  then  all  clothing  taken  from 
incoming  prisoners  is  subjected  to  a  very  careful  exami- 
nation, and  its  identity  as  having  belonged  to  a  certain 
individual  confused,  by  delay  in  sending  it  to  the  tailor 
shop  and  otherwise,  as  much  as  possible. 

On  the  second  Sunday  of  each  month  the  men  who  are 
to  be  discharged  during  the  following  month  are  sent  for 
and  are  permitted  to  have  their  choice  of  this  second- 
hand clothing.  Those  desiring  new  clothing  are  meas- 
ured by  the  tailors  and  have  a  suit  made  to  order  from 
the  cheap  cassimere  which  is  bought  by  contract.  Ad- 
ditional to  second-hand  suits  there  are  second-hand  hats 
and  shoes  and  underwear.  A  great  many  men  prefer  a 
complete  second-hand  outfit.  Men  committed  for  one 
year  may  have  their  own  clothing  saved  for  them  if  they 
so  desire. 

A  discharged  prisoner's  outfit  costs  the  State  less  than 
$7.  If  second-hand  clothing  is  chosen  the  cost  is  reduced 
accordingly. 

On  the  day  of  discharge  the  prisoner  receives  $5,  and 
transportation  by  the  cheapest  route  to  the  place  from 
which  he  was  committed.  If  he  has  twenty  dollars  or  more 
to  his  credit  at  the  office  he  does  not  get  the  $5.  This 
rule  has  resulted  in  some  clever  manipulations  on  the  part 
of  prisoners  about  to  be  discharged. 

\  I  know  one  case,  of  recent  occurrence,  where  a  man 
^had  $23  to  his  credit  at  the  office.  Knowing  that  he  would 
not  receive  the  $5  provided  by  statute,  he  went  to  the 
prison  dentist  a  few  days  before  his  term  expired  and 


Donald  Lo-wrie  165 

had  $4  worth  of  dental  work  done.  This  reduced  his  ac- 
count to  $19,  and  on  the  day  of  his  discharge  he  received 
$24,  and  left  with  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles — happy 
over  the  dental  work,  I  suppose. 

Several  times  in  the  course  of  this  narrative  I  have  had 
occasion  to  mention  the  solitary  ward,  known  as  "the 
incorrigibles,"  at  San  Quentin,  and  as  I  go  on  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  mention  it  again.  It  will  be  of  interest  to 
you  to  know  something  about  this  place. 

Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  the  inmates  of  San  Quen- 
tin were  employed  in  the  manufacture  of  furniture,  prin- 
cipally of  window  and  door  sashes  and  blinds.  A  special 
building  was  constructed  for  this  work,  a  building  400 
feet  long  and  four  stories  in  height.  This  building  is 
now  used  for  various  purposes.  The  ground  floor  con- 
tains the  laundry,  the  new  bathroom,  the  machine  and 
carpenter  shops  and  the  tin  shop.  The  second  floor  is 
used  for  storage  and  general  utilities.  On  the  third  floor, 
the  tailor  and  shoe  shops  are  located,  also  the  dormitory, 
known  as  "7  room,"  where  100  men,  most  of  them  "short 
timers,"  are  confined  at  night.  Owing  to  the  overcrowded 
condition  of  the  prison  it  became  necessary  to  establish 
this  dormitory — there  are  only  650  cells  at  San  Quen- 
tin for  nearly  2,000  prisoners. 

The  top  floor  of  the  "sash-and-blind"  building  is  the 
place  of  tragedies.  At  one  end  is  the  "death  chamber" 
and  execution  room,  where  the  hideous  gallows  stands 
gaunt  and  terrible,  the  dangling  noose  ever  ready  for  the 
next  victim — and  incidentally  for  the  edification  of  mor- 
bid visitors.  Next  to  this  sombre  place,  and  separated 
from  it  by  a  wall  of  masonry,  is  "8  room,"  another  im- 
provised dormitory,  and  at  the  extreme  southern  end, 
overlooking  the  walls  and  the  jute  mill  roof,  is  the  "incor- 
rigibles." 

Although  I  gained  access  to  every  nook  and  cranny  of 


166  My  Life  in  Prison 

San  Quentin  prison  during  the  years  I  remained  there, 
especially  after  I  went  to  work  in  the  office,  I  have  never 
been  inside  the  "incorrigibles."  In  fact,  save  the  men  who 
have  been  confined  there,  I  do  not  believe  more  than  ten 
or  twelve  prisoners  have  ever  been  admitted  to  the  place. 
Occasionally  a  plumber  or  carpenter  is  called  up  there  to 
make  repairs,  but  he  is  kept  under  guard,  and  is  hurried 
through  with  the  work  as  rapidly  as  possible.  Even  the 
man  who  delivers  the  meals  does  not  go  inside,  but  leaves 
his  basket  and  cans  on  the  door  sill. 

The  ward  consists  of  a  room  about  forty  feet  long, 
with  two  rows  of  cells  running  down  the  center.  These 
rows  are  built  with  their  backs  to  each  other,  so  that  a 
prisoner  confined  in  one  of  the  cells  cannot  see  his  fellows. 
The  windows  are  painted,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  see 
through  them,  and  are  heavily  barred  with  timbers  on 
the  outside.  Each  cell  has  its  individual  toilet  accommo- 
dations, and  the  men  confined  there  are  never  permitted  to 
leave  the  cell  save  for  a  bath,  once  a  week.  At  different 
times  there  has  been  a  system  of  giving  the  men  exercise — 
that  is,  each  man  has  been  permitted  to  walk  in  the  cor- 
ridor alone  for  a  short  time  each  day.  A  special  watch  of 
three  guards,  working  in  eight-hour  shifts,  has  charge  of 
the  ward,  and  the  rule  is  that  two  of  them  must  be  there 
at  all  times.  These  men  sleep  and  have  their  meals  where 
they  work,  and  the  one  on  duty  always  has  a  fellow  guard 
within  calling  distance,  though  he  may  be  asleep.  The 
third  man  has  eight  hours  off  duty  meanwhile. 

By  talking  with  men  who  have  been  confined  in  the 
"incorrigibles"  and  by  comparing  the  different  statements 
I  believe  I  have  authentic  knowledge  of  some  of  the  condi- 
tions that  have  obtained  there,  also  some  of  the  atrocities 
that  have  taken  place.  Under  a  former  warden  reading 
matter  was  denied,  and  the  men  were  never  permitted  to 
come  out  of  their  cells.  Their  hair  and  beards  ran  riot, 


Donald  Lowrie  167 

they  got  a  bath  when  it  suited  the  vagarious  fancy 
of  the  jailer  to  give  them  the  opportunity  to  take  one. 
Men  from  whom  it  was  desired  to  secure  confessions  were 
taken  to  the  "incorrigibles"  and  jacketed,  squeezed  and 
abused  in  various  ways  until  they  "came  through."  The 
reason  for  this  was  that  men  under  torture  in  the  "hole" 
could  be  heard  screaming  and  pleading  for  mercy  by  the 
other  prisoners.  The  "incorrigibles"  is  remote  from  the 
other  parts  of  the  prison;  what  takes  place  there  is  never 
known,  and  can  always  be  denied  if  the  victim  tells  of  it. 
Only  this  week  I  talked  with  a  man  who  underwent  this 
form  of  torture  in  the  "incorrigibles"  less  than  three  years 
ago.  Upon  meeting  him  I  instantly  recalled  the  occasion 
and  the  fact  that  he  had  been  jacketed  "upstairs."  But  I 
shall  get  to  that  story  later. 

For  certain  offences,  such  as  attempting  to  escape, 
murderous  assault,  continued  insubordination,  or  certain 
unmentionable  offences  men  are  sentenced  to  this  solitary 
confinement  for  periods  ranging  from  six  months  to  ten 
years.  Sometimes  men  have  been  taken  to  the  "incorrigi- 
bles" and  kept  there  for  long  periods  without  any  of  the 
other  prisoners  learning  why.  I  recall  such  a  case  of 
recent  occurrence.  The  man  was  taken  from  his  cell  in 
the  dead  of  night  and  hurried  away.  Speculation  was 
rife  for  a  few  days,  but  no  one  knew  what  he  had  done, 
and  then  he  was  forgotten.  I  believe  he  is  still  there.  A 
man  who  was  confined  in  "solitary"  for  five  years  told 
me  that  he  only  kept  his  reason  by  living  "mentally." 
He  spent  his  days  thinking  about  everything  save  his  con- 
dition, and  perfected  a  life-saving  device — perfected  it 
mentally — which  he  subsequently  had  patented.  One  man, 
a  lifer,  was  confined  in  the  "incorrigibles"  for  many 
months  because  he  was  insane.  He  was  finally  transferred 
to  one  of  the  asylums,  where  he  now  is. 

Of  course  men  undergoing  this  kind  of  punishment  be- 


168  My  Life  in  Prison 

come  very  bitter  and  ugly,  and  several  attempts  have  Seen 
made  to  escape.  One  man  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of 
his  guard  until  they  became  quite  friendly,  and  then  tried 
to  hang  his  custodian  to  the  cell  door.  By  some  method  of 
persuasion  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  guard  to  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  whereupon  he  reached  out  and 
passed  a  cell-made  garrote  around  the  man's  neck  and 
quickly  twisted  the  ends  about  the  bars  of  the  door.  The 
guard  succeeded  in  crying  out  for  assistance  before  his 
.strangulation  began,  however,  and  was  succored  by  his 
colleague  before  the  prisoner  could  accomplish  his  pur- 
pose. The  plan  had  been  to  choke  the  guard  into  insensi- 
bility, reach  out  and  get  the  keys  from  his  pocket,  unlock 
the  door  and  then  release  the  other  prisoners  confined  in 
the  ward.  Then  the  second  guard,  who  was  sleeping,  was 
to  be  captured  and  bound.  By  removing  the  bars  from 
one  of  the  south  windows  the  desperate  men  hoped  to 
throw  a  line  to  the  wall  and  escape  over  the  heads  of  the 
night-guards  in  the  yard  below.  It  was  a  wild  and  stormy 
winter  night  when  this  attempted  escape  took  place,  and 
had  not  the  guard  succeeded  in  crying  out  before  his  voice 
was  choked  off,  it  is  barely  possible  that  the  plan  would 
have  succeeded. 

Occasionally  innocent  men  are  sentenced  to  solitary 
confinement,  but  not  often.  This  is  made  possible  by 
reason  of  placing  credence  in  stool  pigeons — something 
which  a  wise  warden  will  avoid.  In  the  course  of  subse- 
quent events  I  learned  of  one  such  case  where  the  victim 
remained  in  the  "incorrigibles"  for  five  years.  I  shall 
recount  it  later. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  Gubernatorial  election  occurred,  resulting  in  the  elec- 
tion of  a  new  Governor.  Of  course,  this  meant  a  complete 
change  in  the  prison  management.  The  various  offices  at 
the  State  prisons  are  regarded  as  legitimate  spoils  for 
such  supporters  of  the  "party"  as  are  in  need  of  "jobs" 
after  election,  the  Wardenship  being  the  largest  and 
juiciest  of  the  "plums." 

One  morning  about  two  months  after  the  new  Warden 
had  taken  charge  I  was  busily  engaged  in  marking  clothes 
when  a  step  sounded  on  the  asphaltum  pavement  outside 
and  a  form  darkened  the  doorway.  I  thought  it  was  one 
of  the  "runners"  or  perhaps  an  unfortunate  being  brought 
in  to  "dress"  for  the  "hole,"  and  did  not  look  up.  But 
when  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Yard  say, 
"Give  this  man  a  complete  new  outfit,"  I  became  interested. 
The  order  was  an  unusual  one.  I  glanced  up  in  response 
and  experienced  a  decided  shock. 

Human  beings  are  ever  prone  to  the  inevitable — there 
are  some  things  that  seem  to  be  pre-ordained.  Some  call 
it  "the  will  of  God" ;  others  "kismet" ;  still  others  "kar- 
ma." I  prefer  the  latter  term. 

Certain  moments,  certain  meetings  in  each  of  our  lives 
stand  out  clear  and  distinct,  marking  a  revolution  in  our 
thoughts  and  acts  and  outlook.  Sometimes  it  is  the  meet- 
ing of  a  man  and  woman  who  see  future  worlds  in  each 
other's  eyes;  sometimes  the  initial  contact  of  two  men 

169 


170  My  Life  in  Prison 

who  are  destined  to  fight  out  an  instinctive  hatred ;  some- 
times two  women  who  are  to  make  or  mar  each  other's 
future;  or  it  may  be  the  inception  of  any  one  of  a  score 
of  tragedies  or  blessings.  The  fact  remains  that  such 
moments,  such  meetings,  come  to  all  of  us  in  some  degree. 
This  meeting  of  two  convicts  in  the  sordid  clothing  room 
of  an  antiquated  and  inhuman  prison  was  such  a  moment. 
It  was  fraught  with  tensity. 

Instantly,  intuitively,  I  knew  that  I  was  gazing  into 
the  countenance  of  a  man  whose  soul  I  was  destined  to 
understand,  and  from  whom  I  was  to  receive,  as  well  as 
to  give,  friendship  and  help.  I  did  not  think  all  this  at 
the  moment,  but  in  a  confused,  nebulous,  tentative  sort 
of  way  I  knew  and  felt  it;  a  kind  of  super-conscious 
knowledge,  such  as  we  all  experience  at  tense  moments, 
though  we  seldom  realize  it.  Though  we  were  physical 
strangers,  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  meeting  some  one  whom 
I  had  known  for  ages. 

One  swift,  penetrating  glance  and  we  had  measured 
each  other.  Without  a  spoken  word  we  had  become  inti- 
mately "acquainted."  It  bothered  me  for  days.  I  did 
not  understand  it. 

He  was  a  thin  young  man  of  medium  height,  with  long, 
straggly  blonde  hair  and  beard.  He  was  garbed  in  a 
ragged  suit  of  dirty  stripes.  His  steel-gray  eyes  blinked 
as  though  the  light  hurt  them,  and  yet  they  were  very 
alert,  and  there  was  a  defiance,  an  indomitableness  in  their 
depths.  They  protruded  slightly,  as  the  eyes  of  persons 
who  have  suffered  so  frequently  do.  The  lines  radiating 
from  the  corners  bespoke  mental  as  well  as  physical  dis- 
tress, as  did  the  spasmodic  twitching  of  his  mouth.  His 
skin  was  akin  to  the  color  of  a  thirsty  road  and  his  gar- 
ments looked  as  though  he  had  not  had  them  off  for 
months — the  knees  and  elbows  bulged  and  the  frayed 
edges  of  the  coat  curled  under.  I  was  conscious  of  a 


Donald  Lowrie  171 

warring  within  me.  I  had  not  yet  learned  who  he  was,  and 
still  I  knew  I  was  gazing  at  a  human  creature  who  had 
been  through  hell. 

All  the  concentrated  blindness,  indifference  and  horror 
of  "man's  inhumanity  to  man"  was  standing  before  me. 
My  own  punishment  paled  into  insignificance — it  was 
nothing.  This  man  was  an  evidence  of  what  others  suf- 
fered. 

I  did  not  regard  him  as  an  individual,  but  as  a  com- 
posite, a  composite  of  air  that  was  cruel,  heartless  and 
unjust.  All  this  passed  through  my  mind  like  a  flash.  I 
did  not  think  it;  I  suffered  it.  I  seemed  to  have  had  a 
moment  of  travail.  Something  had  been  born  within  me, 
something  new  and  strange  and  powerful.  I  knew  from 
that  moment  that  it  had  been  necessary  for  me  to  live. 
I  had  never  felt  it  before. 

And  then,  like  a  ghost  from  the  past,  a  picture  of  Rip 
Van  Winkle  flashed  upon  me.  Poor  old  Rip,  coming  back 
to  find  himself  an  anachronism,  a  man  who  had  been  dead 
and  buried  for  years. 

"This  man  will  fit  you  out,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  turn- 
ing to  his  charge.  "When  you're  dressed  report  around 
at  the  Captain's  office.  That  is,  if  you  remember  where 
it  is,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

"Treat  Morrell  right,"  he  admonished  as  he  withdrew 
from  the  room  and  left  us  together. 

Morrell!  The  notorious  "Ed"  Morrell  about  whom  I 
had  heard  so  much,  and  who  had  been  confined  in  the  "in- 
corrigibles"  for  five  years ! 

The  majority  of  the  prisoners,  as  well  as  the  freemen, 
believed  him  innocent  of  the  offence  with  which  he  had  been 
charged  and  for  which  he  had  been  subjected  to  such 
awful  punishment.  So  this  man  was  Ed  Morrell!  No 
wonder  I  had  been  agitated. 

As  the  Lieutenant  disappeared,  Morrell  smiled  wanly 


172  My  Life  in  Prison 

and  sank  wearily  into  a  chair.  It  had  fatigued  him  to 
come  across  the  yard  from  the  place  where  he  had  been 
buried  for  so  many  years,  away  from  the  sun  and  air 
and  human  companionship. 

"So  they  have  let  you  out  at  last,"  I  said,  removing  the 
clay  pipe,  which  I  had  been  smoking,  from  my  mouth  and 
extending  my  hand.  I  did  not  know  I  had  the  pipe  in  my 
mouth.  I  have  no  recollection  of  it.  Morrell  told  me 
about  it  afterward.  He  said  it  looked  so  "funny"  after 
his  long  siege  in  the  semi-darkness  of  "solitary." 

"Is  there  any  chance  to  get  a  bath?"  he  inquired, 
eagerly.  "I  feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  wash  off  some  of  the  hell." 

He  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"What's  the  matter— a  cold?"  I  asked. 

I  stepped  close  to  hear  his  reply. 

"No.  There  ain't  much  chance  of  taking  cold  where 
I've  been.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  my  voice  has  gone 
back  on  me.  I  can't  talk  out  loud  any  more.  It's  been 
getting  worse  for  the  last  two  years.  I  tried  myself  out 
on  the  guard  once  a  month  or  so.  If  I  had  stayed  up 
there  much  longer  I'd  have  lost  it  entirely.  But  I'll  get 
it  back,  now  that  I've  got  a  chance  to  use  it  again." 

I  looked  at  him,  appalled.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
you've  lost  your  voice?"  I  inquired,  incredulously. 

"It  speaks  for  itself,  don't  it?"  he  rejoined,  a  sparkle 
of  humor  lighting  his  tired  eyes. 

Mv  first  impression  had  been  more  that  of  surprise  than 
anything  else,  but  as  the  full  significance  of  the  truth 
burst  upon  me  I  felt  as  though  I  had  come  upon  the 
greatest  horror  of  my  life. 

Here  was  a  man  who  had  suffered  for  five  years,  inno- 
cent of  the  offence  charged  against  him,  and  solitude  had 
stolen  his  voice.  The  condition  might  be  chronic.  It' 
might  grow  worse.  Perhaps  the  day  was  not  far  distant 
when  he  would  be  a  mute.  Yet  it  was  apparent  that  he 


Donald  Lowrie  173 

was  eager  to  talk,  that  the  suppression  of  the  years  was 
boiling  for  vent.  Again  I  felt  that  I  had  entered  upon 
a  new  epoch  of  life.  The  future  loomed  big  and  beck- 
oning. 

"Well,  do  I  get  that  bath,  or  have  you  fallen  asleep?" 
asked  the  man  with  a  stage-whispery  voice. 

The  question  aroused  me  from  my  abstraction. 

"You  bet  you  do,"  I  responded ;  "but  first  let  me  meas- 
ure you  for  some  new  rags." 

He  arose  from  the  chair  and  stood  dejectedly  while  I 
took  the  necessary  measurements,  and  then  I  led  the  way 
to  the  back  room,  where  the  Bathtub  was  located.  I 
started  to  return  to  the  front  room  for  the  purpose  of 
marking  his  clothes,  but  he  stopped  me. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  urged.  "Wait  and  see  what  a  man 
looks  like  after  five  years  in  hell.  I  was  a  husky  when  I 
went  up  there,  hard  as  nails  and  full  of  red  blood,  but 
look  at  me  now." 

While  speaking  he  had  dropped  off  the  outer  rags,  and 
a  moment  later  stood  nude  beside  the  tub  of  warm  water. 
The  enormity  of  what  he  had  suffered  could  not  have  been 
more  forcibly  demonstrated.  His  limbs  were  horribly 
emaciated,  the  knee,  elbow  and  shoulder  bones  stood  out 
like  huge  knots  through  the  drawn  and  yellow  skin,  while 
his  ribs  reminded  me  of  the  carcass  of  a  sheep  hanging  in 
front  of  a  butcher's  establishment.  The  hollows  between 
them  were  deep  and  dark.  I  thought  of  the  picture  I 
had  seen  of  the  famine-stricken  wretches  of  India. 

"I  weighed  160  pounds  five  years  ago,"  he  remarked, 
bitterly.  "What  do  you  suppose  I  weigh  now?" 

"About  95,  I  should  say,  judging  from  your  looks,"  I 
replied,  dropping  my  voice  to  a  whisper  to  conform  with 
his.  "If  they'd  kept  you  up  there  much  longer  it  'd  been 
curtains." 

"Curtains!"  he  flashed  back  at  me,  clinching  his  thin 


174  My  Life  in  Prison 

fingers,  his  intensity  so  strong  that  the  whisper  in  which 
he  uttered  the  word  took  on  a  note  of  ordinary  speech — 
like  a  momentary  struggle  between  his  natural  voice  and 
the  ghost  that  was  left  of  it — "Curtains !  Not  on  your 
life.  I  made  up  my  mind  from  the  first  day  that  they 
wouldn't  get  me.  I'd  'a'  lived  it  out  if  it  'd  been  twenty 
years  instead  of  five." 

He  was  getting  into  the  tub  as  he  spoke,  but  stopped 
and  turned  toward  me. 

"Maybe  I  oughtn't  to  talk  this  way  to  you,"  he  said. 
"God  knows  I've  seen  enough  human  treachery  to  last  me 
a  lifetime,  and  you  may  be  a  spotter  for  the  bunch,  feelin* 
me  out.  But  no,  I  know  you're  not,  and  I'll  prove  it  by 
saying  that  I've  lived  with  one  idea,  an  idea  that  I'll  carry 
out  if  it  takes  the  rest  of  my  life.  Every  man  responsible 
for  what  I've  been  through  has  got  to  pay  for  it.  No 
violence,  mind  you;  no  bloody  'Diamond  Dick'  revenge; 
but  I've  just  willed  that  way.  I've  dreamed  and  dreamed, 
day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  that  they  get  all 
that's  coming  to  them,  and  as  sure  as  mud  is  dirty  they 
will.  You  wonder  why  I'm  so  thin.  The  rest  of  the  bunch 
up  there  ain't  that  way — in  fact,  most  of  them  get  fat. 
The  only  one  that  don't  is  Jake.  I'll  tell  you  lots  about 
him  that  they  don't  know  when  we  get  a  chance.  He's  just 
like  me;  he  don't  live  with  his  body  at  all;  he's  just  alive 
mentally  up  there.  That  will  make  any  man  grow  thin." 

Dramatically  Morrell  laid  the  tip  of  his  forefinger 
against  his  temple,  bending  the  first  joint  backward  and 
holding  it  there  in  the  intensity  of  his  feelings. 

"The  rest  of  me  has  been  dead  for  years.  I've  been 
living  from  my  neck — yes,  from  my  ears  up.  Sometime*- 
I've  been  living  even  higher.  I  seemed  to  be  out  of  this 
broken-down  carcass  entirely,  damn  them!"  He  ended  in 
a  kind  of  gurgle,  with  a  minor  sound  like  that  of  escaping 
steam.  Then  he  stepped  into  the  tub. 


Donald  Lowrie  175 

"What  are  those  scars  on  your  back?"  I  asked  as  he 
sank  onto  his  knees  in  the  water. 

"Scars,"  he  laughed,  sardonically.  "Scars?  Those 
ain't  scars.  They're  only  the  marks  where  the  devil  prod- 
ded me.  I  was  in  the  jacket,  cinched  up  so  that  I  was 
breathing  from  my  throat  when  he  came  and  tried  to  make 
me  'come  through*  and  when  I  sneered  at  him  he  kicked 
me  over  the  kidneys.  I  don't  know  how  many  times  he 
kicked;  the  first  kick  took  my  breath  away  and  I  saw 
black,  but  after  they  took  me  out  of  the  sack  I  couldn't 
get  up,  and  I  had  running  sores  down  here  for  months 
afterward.  I  ain't  right  down  there  now;  I've  got  a  bad 
rupture,  and  sometimes  it  feels  as  if  there  was  a  knife 
being  twisted  around  inside  of  me.  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad 
if  they'd  got  me  right,  but  to  give  a  man  a  deal  like  that 
dead  wrong  is  hell,  let  me  tell  you." 

I  remained  silent.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  But 
I  did  some  thinking.  I  wondered  where  God  had  been — 
and  then  laughed.  Sacrilegious?  Call  it  that  if  you  wish. 
It's  just  what  happened. 

Morrell  floundered  in  the  water,  splashing  it  over  the 
sides  of  the  tub  and  laughing  like  a  schoolboy. 

"This  is  great!"  he  exclaimed;  "it's  almost  as  good  as 
being  free  again." 

I  left  him  laughing  and  returned  to  the  clothing  room 
to  mark  his  clothes.  A  few  minutes  later  he  had  them  on, 
and  I  helped  him  dry  his  hair  and  beard.  His  hair 
hung  down  on  his  shoulders  and  had  a  tendency  to  curl, 
and  his  beard  covered  the  second  button  of  his  shirt.  When 
he  was  all  ready  I  escorted  him  to  the  barber  shop  for  the 
"shearing"  which  the  Lieutenant  had  mentioned. 

As  we  stepped  into  the  barber  shop  there  was'a  notice- 
able air  of  expectancy.  The  word  had  passed  through 
the  prison  that  the  new  Warden  had  released  "Ed"  Mor- 
rell from  "solitary."  All  but  one  of  the  half  dozen  bar- 


176  My  Life  In  Prison 

bers  were  strangers  to  Morrell.  They  had  been  commit- 
ted to  the  prison  after  his  siege  of  solitary  confinement 
had  begun.  The  one  exception  was  old  Frank,  a  lifer  with 
twenty  years'  service  behind  him,  and  the  owner  of  the 
parrot  which  had  scraped  an  acquaintance  with  me  the 
day  I  arrived.  "Old  Frank"  was  the  "boss"  of  the  bar- 
ber shop.  He  was  not  required  to  shave  any  of  the  "cus- 
tomers"; his  duties  were  to  see  that  the  other  men  did 
the  work  properly  and  to  maintain  order.  But  when 
Morrell  stepped  into  the  shop  he  arose  from  his  chair  and 
extended  his  hand. 

"Hello,  Ed,"  he  exclaimed;  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  back. 
How  is  it  up  there  on  Mars,  anyway?" 
»  And  then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  continued :  "I 
claim  the  honor  of  fixin'  you  up.  I  ain't  shaved  a  man  for 
two  months,  but  I  sure  want  to  shave  you  and  cut  that 
wool." 

When  Morrell  made  a  terse  response  in  a  whisper  "Old 
Frank"  stepped  back  and  regarded  him  with  amazement. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  bazoo  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  cold,"  replied  Ed,  winking  at  me.  "Let's 
see  what  you  can  do  with  this  wool." 

The  old  barber  got  out  a  fresh  cloth  and  tucked  it  in 
about  Ed's  neck.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  he  stepped  out 
in  front  of  the  chair  and  regarded  his  man  excitedly. 

"Say,  fellars !"  he  exclaimed,  "come  here  a  minute.  Who 
does  Morrell  here  remind  you  of?" 

The  rest  of  the  barbers  came  with  alacrity  and  stood 
before  the  chair.  They  had  a  natural  curiosity  to  see 
Morrell  at  close  quarters,  anyway,  and  "Old  Frank's" 
query  had  aroused  their  curiosity. 

"Before  I  spoil  it,  who  does  he  look  like?"  repeated  the 
old  man,  standing  on  foot  in  his  impatience. 

A  number  of  guesses  were  ventured,  but  "Old  Frank" 
only  laughed.  I  found  myself  regarding  Morrell  with 


Donald  Lowrie  177 

renewed  interest.  Something  in  the  way  the  light  fell 
on  his  face  and  the  light-colored  cloth  tucked  in  under 
his  chin  made  him  look  ethereal.  His  features  are  of  the 
refined  type,  anyway,  and  I  found  an  elusive  answer  to 
"Old  Frank's"  question  dancing  back  and  forth  in  my 
brain,  but  I  was  unable  to  put  it  into  words. 

The  old  barber  waited  a  few  minutes  smiling  down  at 
the  face  before  him. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Frank?"  asked  Morrell 
in  a  tragic  whisper,  an  effort  to  be  patient  apparent  in 
his  inflection. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you?"  rejoined  the  old  lifer, 
becoming  serious. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  replied  Morrell.  "You're  making  me 
feel  like  some  kind  of  a  freak  on  exhibition.  Let's  have 
it." 

"Old  Frank"  took  a  step  backward  and  a  hush  fell  over 
the  little  group. 

"With  all  due  respect,  Ed,  you're  the  finest  living  pic- 
ture of  Jesus  Christ  that  I've  ever  seen,  so  help  me  God. 
And,  Ed,"  he  added,  hastily,  his  voice  breaking,  "we're 
all  Jesus  Christs,  if  we'd  only  remember  it.  This  ain't  no 
time  to  preach.  I  know  what  you've  been  through,  but 
you  don't  look  the  part  of  a  bad  man,  and  I  know  you're 
not.  Let's  all  get  together  and  see  if  we  can't  play  the 
game  better." 

I  was  moved.  I  wanted  to  "beat  it."  But  a  voice  be- 
hind me  served  better  than  retreat. 

"  'Old  Frank's'  got'  em  at  last,"  it  said.  "The  religious 
bug  has  crawled  inlo  his  skypiece  and  found  good  feedin's. 
Poor  old  Frank !  And  I  thought  he  was  an  ironclad." 

The  circumstances  which  led  up  to  Morrell's  conviction 
and  his  sentence  to  prison  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life 
were  both  romantic  and  unique.  While  still  in  his  teens 
he  met  and  became  infatuated  with  the  daughter  of 


178  My  Life  in  Prison 

"Chris"  Evans,  chief  of  the  well-known  Evans  and  Sontag 
band  of  robbers  which  terrorized  the  central  counties  of 
California  some  years  ago.  At  the  time  of  this  meeting 
Morrell  was  impressionistic  and  full  of  big  ideas.  And 
even  after  all  the  years  of  tragic  vicissitudes  that  have 
since  elapsed  he  is  still  young  in  spirit  and  still  an  im- 
pressionist. He  is  distinctively  of  the  Golden  Fleece  type. 
With  him  the  future  ever  holds  the  possibility  of  earthly 
Nirvana. 

But  during  all  my  intimate  relations  with  Morrell  I  have 
never  been  able  to  prevail  upon  him  to  relate  the  story  of 
that  part  of  his  life.  Whenever  any  mention  is  made  of 
his  adoration  of  Miss  Evans  he  abruptly  changes  the 
subject.  It  seems  to  be  a  closed  and  sacred  chapter  with 
him.  All  I  know  is  that  she  was  young,  beautiful,  viva- 
cious, and  had  a  love  for  her  father  that  almost  amounted 
to  worship.  And  this  filial  attachment  was  not  without 
good  reason.  Evans  worshipped  her  in  turn,  and  was  a 
good  and  kind  father. 

At  the  time  Morrell  met  this  girl  her  father  was  con- 
fined in  the  County  Jail  at  Fresno,  convicted  of  murder 
in  having  killed  one  of  the  posse  which  pursued  him  after 
he  had  committed  train  robbery,  and  under  sentence  of 
life  imprisonment  at  the  Folsom  State  prison. 

When  Morrell  learned  this  fact  he  immediately  deter- 
mined to  hold  up  the  jail  and  effect  Evans'  release.  By 
watching  the  jail  Morrell  learned  that  Evans  was  getting 
his  meals  from  a  restaurant,  and  this  instantly  suggested 
a  plan  whereby  he  could  gain  access  to  the  place  and  carry 
out  his  intention.  Waiting  for  a  dark  and  rainy  night, 
Morrell  put  on  a  waiter's  apron  and  hurried  into  another 
restaurant  also  close  to  the  jail.  He  ordered  a  tray  of 
food,  which  was  hastily  prepared  for  him,  and  then  made 
'his  way  to  jail. 
;  It  was  a  few  minutes  before  the  regular  waiter  was  due 


Donald  Lowrie  179 

with  Evans'  evening  meal,  and  upon  seeing  a  man  in  a 
white  apron  with  a  tray  in  his  hands  the  j  ailer  immediately 
opened  the  door.  Morrell  had  two  loaded  revolvers  on 
the  tray,  covered  with  a  napkin,  and  his  plan  was  to  have 
Evans  seize  these  revolvers  as  the  tray  was  presented  to 
him  and  then  hold  up  the  jailer.  But  as  they  advanced 
toward  the  corridor  where  Evans  was  confined  the  jailer 
suddenly  discovered  that  it  was  a  strange  waiter  and 
stopped  to  make  inquiries.  Morrell  instantly  realized  the 
gravity  of  the  situation.  Should  the  jailer  lift  the  napkin 
and  discover  the  revolvers  the  plan  would  not  only  fail, 
but  he  would  be  caught  in  a  trap.  So,  even  as  the  jailer 
stopped,  Morrell  dropped  the  tray,  whipped  a  revolver 
from  his  pocket  and  ordered  the  jailer  to  throw  up  his 
hands. 

Completely  surprised,  the  man  did  as  he  was  ordered. 
Morrell  then  made  the  jailer  turn  his  back  while  being 
relieved  of  his  weapons  and  keys.  He  marched  the 
man  to  the  corridor  where  Evans  was  waiting  and  un- 
locked it.  Then,  taking  the  jailer  with  them  to  prevent 
an  alarm,  they  passed  out  of  the  jail. 

There  were  more  than  100  prisoners  confined  in  the 
jail  at  the  moment,  under  sentences  ranging  from  one  day 
to  life,  but  there  was  no  thought  of  turning  a  horde  of 
wrongdoers  upon  the  public.  This  was  certainly  a  miti- 
gating circumstance  in  Morrell's  favor,  but  he  was  never 
given  any  credit  for  it. 

On  gainijQg  the  street  Morrell  went  on  a  few  paces 
ahead,  leading  the  way  to  where  he  had  a  team  in  waiting. 
Evans,  with  the  jailer  in  charge,  followed.  A  short  dis- 
tance from  the  jail  they  met  the  Chief  of  Police,  accom- 
panied by  another  man.  Something  made  the  chief  sus- 
picious and  he  endeavored  to  stop  them.  Without  any 
parley  Morrell  instantly  held  the  chief  up.  At  this  mo- 
ment Evans  and  the  jailer  came  up  and  a  brief  struggle 


180  My  Life  in  Prison 

took  place,  the  friend  who  was  with  the  chief  joining  in. 

The  chief  had  managed  to  get  his  arms  about  Morrell's 
body  and  was  holding  him  and  calling  for  assistance. 
Evans  ordered  the  chief  to  release  his  hold.  He  would 
not  do  so  and  Evans  shot  him.  The  two  fugitives  then 
made  their  way  out  of  Fresno  on  foot,  held  up  a  team  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  made  for  the  hills,  thirty  or 
forty  miles  distant.  They  managed  to  elude  the  posses 
that  were  started  out  immediately  behind  them,  and  after 
two  days  of  awful  hardship  gained  the  safety  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

Then  commenced  one  of  the  most  celebrated  man-hunts 
of  modern  times.  After  many  skirmishes  and  fights  in  the 
nountains  they  were  lured  into  a  trap  near  Visalia  and  sur- 
rounded, Evans  parleyed  for  hours,  but  finally  consented 
to  surrender.  The  next  day  he  was  hurried  to  Folsom, 
where  he  had  already  been  sentenced  to  life  imprisonment. 
Morrell  was  placed  in  solitary  confinement  in  the  Fresno 
jail,  and  after  two  months  of  persistent  efforts  to  sweat 
him,  during  which  he  suffered  the  various  tortures  of  the 
third  degree,  the  officials  carried  out  their  threat  to  rail- 
road him  for  life  to  Folsom. 

They  had  believed  that  he  was  cognizant  of  the  detailed 
history  of  the  Evans  and  Sontag  gang  and  were  deter- 
mined that  he  should  tell  it.  But  he  remained  mute.  His 
trial  lasted  three  days,  resulting  in  a  conviction  for  rob- 
bery, and  he  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life. 

"How  did  they  convict  him  of  robbery?"  you  ask.  Noflh- 
ing  more  simple.  He  had  "robbed"  the  Chief  of  Police  of 
his  revolver  while  that  officer  had  been  holding  him.  He 
had  reached  down  and  taken  it  out  of  the  officer's  back 
pocket.  True,  he  had  not  taken  the  weapon  because  of 
its  intrinsic  value — he  simply  wanted  to  prevent  the  offi- 
cer from  using  it.  The  fact  remained,  however,  that  he 


Donald  Lowrie  181! 

had  taken  it,  and  with  violence.  He  had  also  "robbed" 
the  jailer. 

The  penalty  for  assisting  a  prisoner  to  escape  was  only 
ten  years,  while  the  penalty  for  robbery  might  be  anything 
up  to  life.  Therefore  he  was  tried  for  robbery. 

Morrell  was  taken  to  Folsom  prison  heavily  ironed. 
The  officers  who  delivered  him  told  the  prison  officials  that 
he  was  a  very  "bad  man"  and  that  he  would  be  scheming 
to  escape  from  the  first  day.  This  led  to  an  especial  es- 
pionage, and  for  the  least  little  infraction  of  the  rules  he 
was  reported  at  the  office,  called  up  and  punished.  For 
two  years  he  alternated  between  the  dungeon  and  the  of- 
fice, and  then  it  was  decided  to  transfer  him  to  San  Quen- 
tin.  It  is  a  peculiar  fact  that  whenever  it  becomes  neces- 
sary to  transfer  prisoners  from  one  prison  to  the  other 
the  officials  invariably  pick  out  the  worst  characters  they 
can  find,  or  at  least  those  whom  they  judge  to  be  the 
worst  characters.  The  opportunity  to  get  rid  of  them  is 
too  tempting.  It  makes  no  difference  that  they  will  be  a 
sonrce  of  trouble  at  the  other  prison.  And  in  my  own 
experience  I  have  seen  a  dangerous  dement  transferred  in 
this  way  and  no  word  passed  to  the  officers.  Such  a  man 
transferred  from  Folsom  to  San  Quentin  killed  two  of  his 
fellows  before  he  was  found  to  be  insane  and  transferred 
to  an  insane  asylum. 

In  being  transferred  to  San  Quentin  "Ed"  Morrell  met 
the  greatest  tragedy  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

During  the  first  week  following  his  release  from  the  "in- 
corrigibles"  Morrell  was  permitted  to  remain  in  the  yard 
and  was  not  required  to  work.  Then,  greatly  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  everyone,  the  new  Warden  assigned  him 
as  head  key-man,  one  of  the  most  trusted  and  responsible 
positions  which  it  is  possible  for  a  prisoner  to  hold.  Such 
a  thing  was  unheard  of  and  speculation  was  rife. 

It  had  always  been  the  custom  when  a  man  came  out 
of  solitary  confinement  to  assign  him  to  the  jute  mill 
and  keep  him  there.  Only  after  a  long  service  in  the  mill, 
with  a  perfect  record,  could  a  man  who  had  been  in  the 
"incorrigibles"  hope  to  get  a  trusted  position,  and  even 
those  who  earned  that  consideration  were  always  looked 
upon  with  a  certain  degree  of  suspicion  and  apprehension, 
and  seldom  got  positions  of  any  great  trust. 

The  head  key-man  is  the  night  sergeant's  chief  assistant. 
His  duties  consist  in  carrying  the  keys  to  the  various  tiers 
of  cells  after  lock-up  and  accompanying  the  sergeant  on 
his  rounds  for  the  purpose  of  unlocking  and  locking  the 
cell  doors  of  such  prisoners  as  may  be  on  the  second  or 
subsequent  lock-up,  the  sergeant  checking  off  each  man  on 
his  "lock-up  board"  as  he  enters  his  cell  for  the  night  and 
is  locked  in.  The  key-man  also  accompanies  the  night  ser- 
geant to  the  dungeon  at  regular  hours,  and  is  supposed  to 
be  available  for  any  emergency  that  may  arise,  such  as 
fire  in  any  part  of  the  prison,  a  fight  in  the  cells,  or  a 

182 


Donald  Lowrle  188 

call  to  the  hospital  for  the  removal  of  a  deceased  prisoner 
to  the  morgue.  No  matter  at  what  hour  a  man  dies  in 
the  prison  hospital  his  body  is  immediately  removed  to 
the  morgue. 

At  9  o'clock,  when  everyone  save  the  lamplighter  and 
one  or  two  others  is  supposed  to  be  locked  in  for  the 
night,  the  key-man's  duties  are  ended  for  the  day,  and  he 
goes  to  his  cell.  But  he  must  be  up  before  the  ringing 
of  the  bell  in  the  morning  to  distribute  the  keys  to  the 
"unlock  crew"  and  to  see  that  each  key  is  returned  to  its 
proper  place  afterward. 

During  the  day  he  is  on  duty  at  the  Captain  of  the 
Yard's  office,  assisting  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Yard  in  tak- 
ing prisoners  to  the  "hole,"  running  messages  when  the 
regular  messengers  are  busy,  helping  to  receive  new  pris- 
oners— one  of  his  duties  being  to  search  the  new  man  in 
the  presence  of  the  turnkey — and  otherwise  making  him- 
self generally  useful.  It  is  an  arduous  position,  requiring 
a  man  of  good  physique,  and  balanced  mentality. 

The  opportunities  for  "lording"  it  over  his  fellow  pris- 
oners or  doing  "dirty  work"  for  the  officials  are  almost 
limitless.  A  good  man  in  this  position  can  accomplish  a 
great  deal  toward  making  life  more  bearable  for  the  un- 
fortunates who  break  the  prison  rules;  likewise  a  bad 
man  can  make  life  well  nigh  unbearable. 

When  it  became  definitely  known  that  Morrell  had  been 
given  this  place — the  incumbent  having  been  paroled  to 
leave  in  a  few  days — there  was  a  flurry  throughout  the 
prison.  The  general  verdict  of  the  freemen  was  that  the 
Warden  was  a  "mutt"  and  that  he  would  rue  the  day  he 
had  trusted  a  man  like  Morrell,  while  that  of  the  prison- 
ers was  that  Morrell  had  "stooled"  his  way  out  of  "soli- 
dary" by  divulging  some  contemplated  "break"  and  had 
been  given  the  key-man's  job  as  an  additional  reward. 

None  of  these  conjectures  and  predictions  proved  true. 


184  My  Life  In  Prison 

In  my  position  at  the  clothing  room,  adjacent  to  tKe 
office,  I  came  into  daily  asd  nightly  contact  with  Morrell, 
and  I  can  say  without  qualification  that  I  have  never  in 
my  life  met  any  man  more  kindly  in  heart,  more  fair  in 
his  estimates  of  others,  or  more  capable  of  carrying  out 
whatever  his  sense  of  justice  tells  him  is  right. 

His  own  sufferings  had  made  it  possible  for  him  to  ap- 
preciate fully  the  sufferings  of  others,  and  time  after  time 
I  saw  him  take  chances  that  would  have  cost  him  his  posi- 
tion, which  even  might  have  resulted  in  his  being  returned 
to  "solitary"  had  they  been  known — invariably  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  relieving  the  misery  or  extremity  of  a  fel- 
low-prisoner and  without  any  possibility  of  selfish  re- 
turn. 

Also  he  was,  and  still  is,  a  thinker.  A  prisoner  is  not 
supposed  to  think,  especially  out  loud.  Thinking  is  al- 
ways, or  nearly  always,  taken  as  an  indication  of  "crim- 
inosity"  or  an  unbroken  spirit. 

To  break  a  man's  spirit  seemed  to  be  the  principal  ob- 
ject in  those  days.  It  is  yet,  to  a  large  extent,  though  the 
present  Warden  at  San  Quentin  is  an  exception.  His 
treatment  of  prisoners  indicates  that  he  believes  in  devel- 
oping, rather  than  crushing,  them;  that  such  traits  as 
independence,  initiative  and  self-respect  should  be  cultiva- 
ted, not  strangled. 

Probably  I  learned  more  from  "Ed"  Morrell  than  /rom 
any  other  prisoner  with  whom  I  ever  came  in  contact. 
True,  I  learned  a  great  deal  from  Smoky,  and  in  many 
ways  Morrell  reminded  me  of  that  "rough  diamond."  But 
Smoky  was  negative,  while  Morrell  is  positive. 

In  a  few  days  after  his  assignment  at  the  office  Morrell 
began  to  take  on  i!esh  and  regain  his  strength,  and  before 
the  regular  key-man's  date  of  parole  rolled  around  he  had 
grasped  every  detail  of  his  duties  and  was  ready  to  step 
into  the  vacant  place.  His  voice  began  to  get  stronger 


Donald  Lowrie  185 

also,  and  although  even  now — after  five  years — it  is  still 
husky,  in  a  short  time  he  was  able  to  carry  on  a  conversa- 
tion at  a  distance  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet. 

It  was  not  until  I  had  known  him  several  months  and 
we  had  learned  to  understand  and  confide  in  each  other 
that  he  told  me  the  facts  which  had  resulted  in  his  being 
confined  in  "solitary"  for  five  years.  I  had  heard  many 
versions  of  the  affair — "the  big  night  break,"  it  was  called 
— but  had  never  been  able  to  dovetail  it  together.  There 
always  seemed  to  be  an  absence  of  motive,  a  lapse,  an 
element  of  impossibility,  a  missing  link.  I  knew  that  "Sir" 
Harry  Eastwood  Hooper,  a  clever  forger  who  had  duped 
some  of  the  best  business  men  of  San  Francisco  into  be- 
lieving he  was  an  English  nobleman  before  he  was  caught 
and  committed  to  San  Quentin,  had  been  the  arch  traitor, 
and  that  his  treachery  had  resulted  in  a  dozen  prisoners — 
many  of  them  "lifers" — being  charged  with  conspiracy 
to  escape,  for  which  they  had  been  placed  in  solitary  con- 
finement and  otherwise  tortured,  Morrell  among  them ; 
but  I  had  never  been  able  to  understand  why  Hooper  him- 
self had  been  likewise  punished  and  deprived  of  his  credits. 
It  didn't  seem  plausible  that  a  man  who  had  exposed  such 
a  gigantic  conspiracy  for  wholesale  escape  should  have 
been  punished  along  with  the  men  whom  he  had  "given 
away."  I  had  never  seen  Hooper,  at  least  not  at  that 
time,  though  he  was  subsequently  returned  to  San  Quen- 
tin for  another  forgery,  or,  rather,  perjury  growing  out 
of  a  charge  of  forgery,  and  somehow  I  felt  that  he  was 
unjustly  accused,  that  there  was  a  "darky  in  the  fuel," 
as  Smoky  used  to  put  it,  that  he  had  been  made  a  scape- 
goat and  that  some  other  man  concerned  in  the  plot  had 
been  the  real  informer.  But  Morrell  certainly  disabused 
my  mind  of  this  charitable  delusion.  Gradually  he  gave 
me  the  history  of  the  entire  tragedy.  But  even  then  it 
was  so  complicated,  confused  and  incredible  that  I  often 


186  My  Life  in  Prison 

found  myself  doubting.  The  story  worried  me  and  I 
sometimes  found  myself  looking  at  Morrell  with  a  certain 
degree  of  distrust.  At  last  he  seemed  to  sense  this,  and 
also  the  cause,  so  one  night  when  everyone  was  locked  up 
and  we  were  in  the  office  alone  he  recounted  the  affair  from 
beginning  to  end.  I  shall  endeavor  to  tell  it  just  as  he 
told  it  to  me,  using  his  own  words  as  closely  as  memory 
permits. 

"You  must  remember  that  when  I  was  transferred  to. 
San  Quentin  from  Folsom  a  lifer  had  little  hope  of  ever 
getting  out.  Of  course,  there  was  the  parole  law,  but  you 
know  how  that  was  worked  in  those  days.  Maybe  half  a 
dozen  men  with  the  right  kind  of  a  pull  would  get  out  in 
a  year,  and  a  life-termer — well,  he  had  about  as  much1 
a  chance  of  getting  a  parole  as  he  had  of  becoming  King] 
of  England.  Naturally,  I  wanted  to  get  out.  I  didn'tj 
want  to  stay  in  prison  until  I  was  an  old  man  with  one. 
foot  in  the  grave.  I  wanted  a  chance  to  live  a  man's  life,' 
as  God,  or  whoever  put  me  here,  intended. 

"On  the  way  down  from  Folsom  I  did  a  lot  of  thinking.' 
I  knew  there  would  be  a  strony  knock  registered  against 
me  here,  but  I  made  up  my  mind  if  they  gave  me  half  a* 
chance  I'd  do  the  right  thing  and  try  to  earn  my  way  out 
on  the  square. 

"Of  course,  I  didn't  feel  as  if  I  had  done  anything  to 
deserve  life — and  I  don't  feel  that  way  yet.  If  I'd  gone 
into  jail  and  released  a  prisoner  in  time  of  war  I'd  'a'  been 
a  hero,  but  being  a  time  of  peace  made  me  a  desperate 
and  donperous  criminal.  Did  you  ever  think  of  that? 

"I  had  a  friend  in  jail  and  I  took  the  quickest  and 
surest  way  to  get~1iim  out,  and  that  made  me  an  out- 
law, a  man  to  be  shot  down  on  sight.  I've  tried  to  see 
the  other  side  of  it,  too,  and,  of  course,  I  know  there  has 
to  be  law  and  order,  but  if  I  was  a  judge  I'd  take  a  man's 


Donald  Lowrie  187, 

motives  and  all  the  circumstances  into  consideration  be- 
fore I  handed  a  man  life. 

"God,  just  think  what  that  means.  It  don't  do  any- 
body any  good.  I  look  around  me  every  day  and  see 
young  fellows  doing  it  all,  some  of  them  for  getting  a 
few  paltry  dollars  when  they  were  up  against  it  for  a  feed 
and  a  place  to  sleep,  and — well,  I'm  surprised  more  of 
'em  don't  jump  off  the  tiers.  But  I'm  getting  away  from 
my  story. 

"The  day  after  I  got  here  they  sent  to  the  mill  after 
me  and  the  captain  took  me  into  his  private  office.  He 
sat  down  on  the  lounge  and  spread  out  a  piece  of  paper 
on  his  knees,  leaving  me  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"  'Morrell,'  he  says,  'you  might  as  well  understand  what 
you're  up  against  from  the  start.  Here's  your  punish- 
ment record  at  Folsom.  You  may  think  you're  a  bad  man, 
but  I  want  to  tell  you  right  now  that  the  first  time  you 
bat  an  eye  you'll  think  Folsom  is  a  paradise  alongside  of 
this  place. 

"  'No,  no!  Never  mind,'  he  says,  jumping  up  as  I  tried 
to  speak.  'I'm  doing  the  talking  now.  All  you  got  to  do 
is  listen,  and  listen  damn  close.  We're  putting  a  special 
watch  on  you,  and  the  first  move  you  make  you'll  hit  the 
hole  so  hard  you'll  think  a  cyclone's  struck  you.' 

"I  tried  to  speak  again.  Even  after  what  he  had  said 
I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  try  to 
get  along  without  trouble?  but  he  stopped  me  again. 

"  'Go  on  back  to  your  work,'  he  snarled.  'Cons  don't 
do  any  talkin'  here  until  I  let  them;  understand?' 

"Even  after  this  I  still  wanted  to  talk,  but  I  choked 
it  flown  and  just  gave  him  one  long  look.  Then  I  turned 
and  swaggered  out  on  to  the  porch,  and  right  there  and 
then  all  my  good  resolutions  turned  red.  If  that  was  the 
way  he  felt  I'd  meet  him  on  his  own  grounds.  I'd  show 


188  My  Life  in  Prison 

him  that  if  a  con  couldn't  talk  he  could  act,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  beat  the  place,  or  get  killed  trying  it. 

"Well,  for  a  couple  of  weeks  everything  went  along  all 
right.    I  was  lying  low,  studying  the  situation  and  feeling 
my  way  along  with  the  other  cons.     Of  course,  I  knew 
cons  pretty  well,  and  I  knew  I'd  have  to  be  damned  care- ' 
ful  who  I  talked  to  or  who  I  took  into  my  confidence.  ^ 
One  day,  I  guess  it  was  about  a  month  after  I  got  here,  a 
guard  pinched  me  for  crowding  in  line  and  ran  me  up  to 
the  office.     I  hadn't  done  any  crowding;  it  was  some  guy 
behind  me,  but  he  landed  on  me  and  wouldn't  listen.    As 
soon  as  the  captain  saw  me  he  got  excited. 
j     "  'So,  here  you  are !'  he  said  to  me  before  the  guard 
could  speak.    'You  can't  behave  yourself,  hey  ?    What  has 
be  done?'  he  asked,  turning  to  the  guard. 

"  'Pushing  and  shoving  and  making  a '  disturbance  in 
line,'  says  the  guard.  'He's  a  bad  actor,  Captain,  and  I've 
'had  my  eye  on  him  for  several  days.' 

"And  then,  without  a  word  to  me,  the  Captain  turned 
to  the  Lieutenant,  who  was  standing  close  by  with  his 
cane: 

"  'Dungeon ;  48  hours,'  he  says,  turning  his  back  and 
walking  off. 

"Well,  I  knew  it  was  no  use  resisting,  and  I  went  down 
meek  as  a  lamb,  but  with  hell  fire  bubbling  inside  of  me. 
They  slapped  me  into  the  dungeon,  chained  to  the  wall, 
and  I  stayed  there  two  days  on  bread  and  water.  All  for 
nothing,  mind  you,  and  without  a  chance  to  defend  my- 
self. 

"Of  course,  when  I  got  out  I  had  it  in  for  the  guard, 
'and  I  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  show  him  how  I  hated 
him.  Every  time  he  came  around  I  glared  at  him  and  tried 
to  show  how  much  I  despised  him.  Of  course,  that  didn't 
get  me  anything,  and  finally  it  got  so  raw  that  he  pinched 
me  again. 


Donald  Lowrie  189 

"  'What's  the  trouble  now?'  asked  the  Captain,  as  we 
came  up  on  the  porch. 

"  'Oh,  this  stiff  is  trying  to  stir  up  trouble  all  the  time, 
and  he  keeps  dog-eyeing  me.  He's  the  worst  character  on 
my  section,  Captain.' 

"I  knew  it  wasn't  any  use  sajnng  anything.  In  fact,  I 
wouldn't  have  said  anything  for  myself  if  I  knew  I  was 
going  to  be  hung  the  next  minute.  Johnnie  noticed  I  was 
looking  sullen,  so  he  asked  me  for  an  explanation.  He 
could  tell  by  looking  at  me  that  I  was  raging  inside,  and 
I  suppose  he  thought  he'd  get  me  to  tear  loose  and  get 
myself  in  worse.  But  I  was  onto  his  game,  and  just  stood 
there  without  saying  a  word. 

"  'Well,  an  officer's  addressing  you,'  he  nagged,  'and 
when  an  officer  speaks  to  you,  you  answer;  understand? 
What  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?' 

"Of  course,  that  only  made  me  hotter,  and  I  knew  if 
I  opened  my  mouth  I'd  call  that  guard  every  name  ever 
invented  by  a  pirate  sea  captain.  So  I  just  stood  and 
looked  at  him,  pretending  to  smile,  as  if  I  was  bored  to 
death.  I  knew  that  would  get  the  Captain's  goat,  and  it 
did.  He  lifted  his  little  cane  as  if  he  was  going  to  hit  me, 
expecting  me  to  cringe  or  dodge,  I  suppose,  but  I  just 
kept  on  smiling.  With  that  he  ordered  the  Lieutenant 
to  put  me  in  the  hole  for  a  week, — 'and  see  that  he  don't 
get  too  much  bread  and  water,'  he  added,  as  I  was  led 
away. 

"Well,  this  kept  up  for  two  or  three  months,  and  I  spent 
most  of  the  time  chained  to  the  wall  in  the  dungeon,  and 
then  I  got  a  tip  that  opened  my  eyes.  A  friend  of  mine, 
a  guard  who  knew  me  before  I  ever  got  into  trouble,  was 
over  in  San  Rafael  in  a  saloon  one  night  when  this  other 
guard,  the  one  who  had  it  in  for  me,  came  in. 

"  'How's  things  going  at  the  prison  ?'  asked  the  barten- 
der. 


190  My  Life  in  Prison 

"  'Oh,  pretty  well.     But  we've  got  some  mean  custom- 


ers over  there  now.    I've  got  one  of  the 


in  the  hole  right  now.  He's  one  of  that  Evans  and 

Sontag  crowd,  and  they  killed  a  cousin  of  mine  in  the 
mountains,  at  least  the  gang  did,  a  few  years  ago.  My 
cousin  was  in  a  posse  that  was  hunting  them,  and  I'm 
taking  it  out  of  this  fellow's  hide.' 

"When  my  friend  came  into  the  mill  the  next  morning 
he  looked  me  up  and  took  me  to  one  side  and  told  me  what 
he  had  heard.  Of  course,  it  made  me  crazy  mad.  At  first 
I  thought  of  getting  a  hammer  or  something  and  killing 
the  guard  who  had  dogged  me,  but  I  didn't.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  give  them  a  show  first.  So  that  afternoon  I  got 
passed  to  the  Captain's  office.  He  tried  to  stop  me  from 
talking  to  him,  but  I  paid  no  attention  and  finally  got  him 
interested.  That  was  one  peculiar  thing  about  the  Cap- 
tain— he  imagined  he  was  always  giving  everybody  a 
square  deal.  I  don't  remember  exactly  what  I  said,  but 
I  told  him  what  I  knew,  and  how  this  guard  had  boasted 
that  he  was  taking  it  out  of  my  hide,  and  wound  up  by 
saying  that  the  next  time  he  bothered  me  I'd  kill  him  so 
dead  that  the  crack  of  doomsday  wouldn't  feaze  him. 

"The  Captain  spoke  kindly  to  me  for  the  first  time,  but 
it  was  too  late.  He'd  treated  me  like  a  dog,  and  what 
he'd  done  couldn't  be  wiped  out  by  one  kind  word,  es- 
pecially when  I  knew  it  wasn't  from  his  heart  and  that 
he  was  eager  to  expose  the  guard  and  take  the  credit  of 
having  given  a  con  a  square  deal.  Oh,  I  read  him  like  a 
book. 

"The  upshot  of  the  whole  thing  was  the  guard  was 
transferred  from  the  mill  to  one  of  the  outside  posts,  a 
gatling  post,  and  he  never  got  another  chance  at  me.  But 
I  was  full  to  the  neck  with  hate,  and  I  was  more  deter- 
mined than  ever  to  make  them  dance  to  my  music  instead 


Donald  Lowrie  191 

of  me  dancing  to  theirs.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  stand  alone 
against  the  whole  world,  and  win  out. 

"And  it  was  this  feeling,  brought  on  by  having  it  thrown 
into  me  unjustly,  that  paved  the  way  for  the  Sir  Harry 
Hooper  deal. 

"I  was  introduced  to  Sir  Harry  Hooper  by  a  forger 
that  did  time  with  me  at  Folsom.  At  first  I  took  a  dislike 
to  him.  There  is  a  phony  note  in  his  voice  and  a  kind 
of  sizing-you-up  expression  in  his  eyes,  something  like 
you  see  in  a  pawnbroker's  eyes.  He's  a  slick  one,  and  he 
fooled  me.  But  he  taught  me  one  lesson,  and  that  is  al- 
ways to  follow  the  first  impression  I  get  of  a  man.  Ever 
since  that  deal  I've  done  that.  If  my  first  meeting  with 
anyone  tells  me  to  look  out,  I  look  out.  But  his  soft  ways 
and  his  pretended  interest  in  me  got  under  my  skin.  Be- 
sides, he  was  thin  and  peaked  looking,  and  you  couldn't 
help  feelin'  kind  of  sorry  for  him.  He  had  that  I'm- 
a-gentleman-doing-time-hard  air  about  him.  You  know 
the  type. 

"Well,  for  a  few  days  he  had  me  going  south,  and  then 
I  got  his  measure.  A  little  chance  remark  dropped  when 
he  wasn't  thinking  put  me  wise  to  him,  and  I  put  him 
down  as  a  guy  that  would  do  anything  to  get  himself  to 
the  front  and  out  of  prison  before  his  four  years  were 
up. 

"That  set  me  to  thinking,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
use  him.  I  had  already  hatched  a  scheme  for  beating  the 
dump,  and  I  needed  a  good  forger.  I'd  show  him  how  we 
could  both  beat  it  and  I'd  get  him  mixed  into  it  so  bad 
that  he  couldn't  possibly  squeal  without  giving  himself 
away  too.  So  what  did  I  do?  I  started  in  to  get  'Sir' 
Harry  a  job  in  the  Captain's  office.  That  sounds  funny, 
don't  it?  I,  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  worst  characters 
in  the  prison,  deciding  to  get  one  of  the  best  forgers  in 
the  place  into  the  Captain's  office ! 


My  Life  in  Prison 

"But  it  was  dead  easy.  I  watched  my  chance  and 
dropped  a  hint  to  him,  showing  him  how  he  could  do  a 
little  stooling  and  land.  I  knew  he  was  itching  for  a 
chance  to  peddle  something  to  the  Captain,  and  he  fell 
for  my  plan  like  a  house  afire.  He  was  using  dope  at 
the  time,  and  by  hustling  I  managed  to  keep  him  supplied. 
And  every  two  or  three  days  I'd  slip  him  a  piece  of  change. 
Every  time  I  got  a  chance  I'd  bait  Harry  with  some  flat- 
tering remark  about  what  a  swell  guy  he  was  and  how 
much  I  thought  of  him. 

"In  less  than  two  months  after  I  started  in  on  him  he 
got  a  job  in  the  office  as  the  Captain's  private  clerk.  That 
was  just  what  I  wanted,  and  I  lost  no  time  in  telling  him 
the  scheme.  It  was  getting  close  to  the  end  of  Hale's 
administration,  and  my  plan  was  to  have  Harry  get  hold 
of  my  commitment  and  his  own  and  three  others,  make 
counterfeits  in  place  of  them,  giving  us  all  less  time  than 
we  had,  change  the  books,  and  then  when  the  new  bunch 
of  politicians  came  in  we'd  walk  out  discharged. 

"My  commitment  was  to  be  changed  from  life  to  nine 
years.  That  would  put  me  out  a  few  months  after  the 
new  crowd  got  here.  The  others  were  to  be  changed  the 
same  way,  so  we'd  all  go  out  at  the  beginning  of  the  new 
administration.  When  I  explained  all  this  to  Harry  he 
was  tickled  to  death,  or  seemed  to  be,  and  got  busy  right 
away.  In  a  few  days  he  handed  me  four  commitments, 
but  his  own  wasn't  there.  That  made  me  kind  of  sus- 
picious, and  I  asked  him  how  about  himself. 

"  'Oh,  I'll  fix  my  own,'  he  says. 

"You  see,  I  had  worked  another  forger  into  the  scheme 
since  I'd  started,  and  this  man  was  to  do  the  work  in  his 
cell.  I  let  it  go  at  that,  and  that's  where  I  made  a  mistake. 
I  should  have  insisted  on  having  all  the  commitments 
changed  by  the  same  man. 

"Well,  after  a  day  or  so,  Harry  gave  me  the  blanlc 


Donald  Lowrie  193 

commitments,  and  I  handed  the  whole  bunch  over  to  the 
man  that  was  to  do  the  changing. 

"Two  days  later  I  had  them  all  back,  and  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  them.  The  forgeries  were  perfect,  seals 
and  all.  How  he  did  it  I  don't  know,  but  I  compared  the 
counterfeits  with  the  genuine  commitments,  and  exceptin* 
that  the  time  had  been  changed  you  couldn't  tell  the  dif- 
ference. All  the  handwriting  and  the  signatures  were 
exactly  like  the  originals. 

"Maybe  it  didn't  make  me  feel  good  to  see  a  commit- 
ment with  my  name  on  it  giving  me  nine  years  instead  of 
life.  And,  of  course,  the  other  fellows  in  the  game  were 
just  as  tickled. 

"When  I  had  made  sure  that  everything  was  all  right  I 
burned  up  the  original  commitments  one  night  in  my  cell, 
and  then  I  handed  the  bunch  of  counterfeits  back  to 
Harry.  He  looked  them  over  and  said,  'Fine!  Fine!  Al- 
most as  good  as  I  could  have  done  them  myself.  You 
ought  to  see  mine;  it's  perfect.  I've  only  got  one  year 
instead  of  four,  and  I'll  be  going  out  in  five  months.  I'm 
changing  all  the  books  as  I  -get  a  chance,  but  I'll  have  to 
leave  the  main  books,  the  ones  the  Captain  is  liable  to 
see,  until  after  the  new  bunch  comes.  I  can  make  all  the 
final  changes  in  one  night  when  the  time  comes." 

"I  carried  the  word  to  the  gang,  and  we  all  chirked  up 
and  began  to  feel  like  somebody.  We  were  all  short-tim- 
ers, you  see,  and  that  makes  a  fellow  feel  pretty  good. 
I  settled  down  to  behave  myself  so's  to  keep  out  of  trouble, 
and  I  was  so  good  it  hurt.  Every  day  I'd  manage  to 
see  'Sir'  Harry.  He'd  slip  over  to  the  yard  at  unloclc, 
or  at  night,  and  I'd  hand  him  a  ball  and  a  piece  of  change. 

"But  all  the  time  he  was  double-crossing  me.  He  was 
playing  me  for  the  livest  sucker  he'd  ever  patted  on  the 
back.  That's  where  the  complication  comes  in.  I  wisK 
I  could  tell  you  the  story  just  as  it  happened,  because  I 


194  My  Life  in  Prison 

was  in  the  3ark  as  to  what  he  was  doing  until  IKe  tig 
pinch  was  pulled  off  and  I  found  myself  in  solitary.  li; 
wasn't  until  several  months  after  the  whole  thing  was  over 
that  I  got  it  straight,  but  in  order  to  make  it  plain  to  you 
I'll  have  to  tell  it  the  same  as  if  I  knew  just  what  was 
.going  on  inside  that  devil's  noodle  all  the  time. 

"He  knew,  for  one  thing,  that  I  was  about  seventeen 
miles  off  the  track  when  I  imagined  I  could  beat  the  dump 
by  changing  my  commitment  and  expecting  to  have  all 
the  books  changed.  He  knew  it  was  impossible,  because 
every  man's  time  and  the  county  he  comes  from  is  senii 
to  the  Governor's  office  in  Sacramento  when  he  comes  in, 
and  nobody  can  get  out  until  the  Warden  sends  to  Sacra- 
mento and  gets  a  discharge  signed  by  the  Governor.  And, 
of  course,  they  never  make  out  these  discharges  until  they 
look  up  their  records.  I  didn't  know  all  that,  but  'Sir' 
Harry  did,  and  yet  he  got  the  commitments  and  put  the 
phony  ones  back  in  their  places. 

"But  he  was  scheming  along  a  separate  line  all  this 
time.  He  was  laying  the  train  to  spring  'Sir'  Harry  and 
leave  us  suckers  marooned  on  Damn  Fool  Island. 

"Well,  he  came  up  to  me  one  day  in  the  yard  and  said, 
*Say,  Ed,  I'm  going  to  leave  the  office.  I've  already 
played  the  nervous  breakdown  gag  on  'Johnnie,'  and  I've 
got  him  thinking  I'm  the  sweetest  candy  kid  that  ever 
happened.  I'm  going  to  throw  a  fit  for  a  stall,  and  when 
I  come  out  of  it  I'll  ask  him  to  assign  me  to  the  night  job 
in  the  Red  Front.  That  will  be  a  good  change  of  em- 
ployment for  me,  and  I  guess  I  can  carry  the  lunches 
around  to  the  night  guards  without  hurting  myself  much.' 

"  'But  how  about  the  books  you  haven't  changed  yet?' 
I  asked,  flaring  up. 

"  'Tut,  tut,  man !'  he  says,  patting  me  on  the  Hack  and 
laughing  that  slick,  oily  laugh  of  his.  'My,  but  you'll  be 
run  over  by  a  hearse  when  you  get  out,  you're  so  slow. 


Donald  Lowrie  195 

Don't  you  see  how  this  move  strengthens  the  game?  I 
know  that  office  from  A  to  Z  now,  and  I'm  going  after  a 
night  job  that  permits  me  to  go  anywhere  in  the  prison. 
All  I've  got  to  do  is  slip  over  there  some  night  when  every- 
thing is  nice  and  quiet,  and  the  time  is  ripe,  and  make  the 
few  little  changes  that  are  left.  And  then  there's  some- 
thing else  you  haven't  thought  of,  either.  In  case,  by  any 
chance,  they  should  spring  those  commitments,  I'd  be 
clear.  Of  course,  some  other  guy  will  get  my  place  over 
there  when  I  land  this  night  job,  and  they'll  never  be 
able  to  say  who  did  the  trick.  Of  course,  there  ain't  one 
chance  in  a  thousand  that  they'll  spring  them,  but  if  they 
do  we're  all  in  the  clear;  savvy?' 

"This  certainly  looked  like  a  slick  move,  and  I  told  him 
so,  but  somehow,  down  underneath,  I  caught  a  false  note. 
I  couldn't  make  out  how  I  could  get  nailed,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  mixed  into  the  thing  so  much  himself  that  it  didn't 
seem  possible  that  he  could  do  us  dirt.  So  I  refused  to 
let  myself  doubt  him.  What  a  sucker  I  was !" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  couple  of  days  later  'Sir'  Harry  threw  the  fit  on  the 
office  porch.  They  packed  him  to  the  hospital  and  made 
a  great  hullabaloo  over  him,  and  then,  after  three  days 
in  bed,  he  came  out  again,  and  the  Captain  give  him  the 
night  job  in  the  Red  Front.  And  what  do  you  suppose? 
Throwing  the  fit  and  getting  the  job  in  the  Red  Front 
was  all  part  of  a  little  by-play,  a  nice  little  frame-up  be- 
tween him  and  the  Captain. 

"You  see,  Harry  had  told  the  Captain  that  there  was 
a  big  plot  on  foot  for  a  night  break,  that  he  was  in  touch 
with  some  of  the  leaders,  and  that  they  wanted  him  to 
help  them  out.  They  had  come  to  him  and  proposed  that 
he  try  to  work  the  Captain  for  the  night  job,  so  that  he 
would  be  where  they  wanted  him  and  give  them  the  neces- 
sary help. 

"The  Captain  saw  a  chance  to  do  a  good  turn  for  him- 
self and  Hale.  It  was  near  the  end  of  Hale's  administra- 
tion, and  if  they  could  nip  a  big  scheme  like  that  in  the 
bud  it  would  give  them  a  boost,  and  they  might  manage 
to  hang  on  for  another  term. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Harry  had  sprung  a  plot  on  two 
or  three  lifers,  telling  them  he  was  sorry  for  them  and  was 
willing  to  go  the  limit  himself.  He  told  them  that  he'd 
have  to  get  the  night  job  in  order  to  carry  out  the  plan, 
and  then  he  told  the  Captain  that  he'd  have  to  make  some 
kind  of  a  grandstand  play  to  get  out  of  the  office  and 

196 


Donald  Lowrie  197 

into  the  night  job  without  arousing  the  suspicion  of  the 
guys  that  was  supposed  to  be  hatching  the  scheme.  Do 
you  get  the  drift? 

"The  poor  suckers  that  he  had  roped  in  knew  he  was 
going  to  throw  a  fit  so's  to  fool  the  Captain,  as  they 
thought,  and  the  Captain  knew  he  was  going  to  throw  a 
fit  so's  to  fool  the  guys  that  were  in  on  the  plot.  As  for 
me,  I  didn't  know  a  damn  thing  about  it.  I  thought  'His 
Lordship'  was  getting  into  the  night  job  so's  to  cover  up 
his  tracks  on  the  commitment  deal. 

"Talk  about  psychology!  Talk  about  wheels  within 
wheels !  I  certainly  have  to  take  my  hat  off  to  that  guy. 
There  he  was  playing  half  a  dozen  different  schemes, 
making  suckers  out  of  everyone,  and  laughing  up  his  sleeve 
all  the  time,  I  suppose.  But  he  had  one  grand  idea.  When 
all  the  smoke  cleared  away  he  expected  to  find  himself 
outside  the  front  gate,  dressed  up  in  glad  rags,  and  with 
a  pardon  in  his  pocket. 

"As  soon  as  he  got  the  night  job  he  began  carrying  re- 
ports to  the  Captain  every  day.  He  told  the  Captain 
that  the  gang  had  fallen  for  the  fit  scheme,  and  imagined 
that  they  were  handing  the  Captain  the  slickest  package 
of  his  career.  Also  they  had  told  him  their  entire  plot, 
and  they  wanted  him  to  play  the  chief  part  in  it.  Should 
he  go  ahead? 

"The  Captain  studied  it  over  for  a  day  or  two  and  then 
said  to  let  her  ride.  Harry  told  him  that  the  plan  was 
to  have  him  drug  the  coffee  of  the  second  watch  when 
they  came  into  the  Red  Front  for  lunch  before  going  on 
duty  at  midnight,  and  then  when  they  had  all  gone  to 
sleep  at  their  posts  he  was  to  go  up  to  a  certain  cell  and 
unlock  it,  and  the  party  in  that  cell  had  skeleton  keys  that 
would  unlock  the  cells  of  all  the  other  men  that  were  go- 
ing— there'd  be  about  thirty  altogether,  but  most  of  them 
wouldn't  be  let  in  on  the  play  until  the  last  moment. 


198  My  Life  in  Prison 

"He  also  told  the  Captain  that  probably  some  guy  that; 
was  in  the  scheme  would  turn  traitor  before  it  was  pulled 
off,  and  come  to  him  with  it.  Then  he  turned  right  around 
and  managed  to  get  the  scheme  to  the  ears  of  a  guy  that 
he  knew  would  carry  it  to  the  office.  Of  course,  this  was 
just  what  he  wanted.  It  would  make  the  Captain  think 
he  was  on  a  hot  trail. 

"I  never  heard  of  a  more  diabolical  case  of  double-cross- 
ing in  my  life,  and  yet  I  have  to  laugh  when  I  think  of  it. 
The  Captain  and  the  Warden  were  hobnobbing  from 
morning  to  night,  and  'Sir'  Harry  would  mosey  over  to 
the  office  with  his  face  all  drawn,  pretending  that  the 
strain  was  telling  on  him,  and  report  progress.  They 
patted  him  on  the  back  and  urged  him  to  stay  with  it.  He 
pretended  it  was  too  much,  that  he  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
wanted  to  quit.  He  urged  them  to  make  the  arrests  right 
away.  Of  course,  he  didn't  want  them  to,  and  he  knew 
they  wouldn't.  He  knew  they  wanted  to  take  the  con- 
spirators red-handed.  All  he  did  this  for  was  to  work  the 
thing  to  the  boiling  point  and  make  himself  out  a  kind  of 
martyr  in  their  service. 

"And  then,  in  order  to  get  the  guys  that  were  going  to 
make  the  getaway  worked  up,  too,  Harry  decided  to  get 
the  drug  and  try  it  some  night  on  a  guard. 

"  'I'll  dope  a  certain  guard's  coffee  next  Sunday  night,' 
he  told  them,  'just  to  make  sure  that  the  stuff  will  work.' 

"You  know  that  when  a  guard  goes  to  sleep  on  post  he 
gets  canned,  and  evervbody  in  the  place  hears  about  it. 
Well,  Harry  figured  if  he  could  put  some  guard  to  sleep 
the  gang  would  drop  the  last  vestige  of  suspicion  and 
come  to  him  like  a  lot  of  sheep. 

"He  was  something  of  a  doctor,  you  Know,  and  he  had 
been  tending  the  wife  of  one  of  the  officers.  They  believed 
he  had  studied  medicine  and  knew  more  than  the  regular 
prison  physician.  This  officer  used  to  take  Harry  out  to 


Donald  Lowrie  199 

his  house  to  doctor  his  wife.  She  had  nervous  prostration 
or  something,  and  he  did  have  a  magnetic  treatment  all 
right.  I  learned  after  it  was  all  over  that  he  used  to  have 
an  office  somewhere  back  East  as  a  specialist. 

"Well,  he  told  this  officer  that  a  certain  kind  of  medi- 
cine would  help  cure  his  wife,  and  he  wrote  out  a  prescrip- 
tion, addressed  to  some  druggist  he  knew  in  San  Francis- 
co. The  officer  got  the  stuff  for  him  all  right,  thinking 
it  was  medicine  for  his  wife,  and  Harry  got  him  to  bring 
it  inside  to  him,  claiming  that  he  had  to  add  a  couple 
of  home-made  ingredients,  or  something. 

"A  couple  of  nights  later  he  doped  the  coffee  of  a  night 
guard,  some  fellow  that  he  didn't  like,  and  this  guard 
went  to  sleep  on  post  and  was  fired.  Do  you  see  the  dev- 
iltry? He  not  only  convinced  the  gang  that  he  had 
the  stuff  that  would  put  the  guards  to  sleep  when  the 
proper  night  came,  but  he  also  got  revenge  on  a  guard 
that  had  called  him  down.  Gee,  but  he  certainly  was  a 
demon. 

"Of  course,  the  Captain  didn't  know  anything  about 
this  part  of  the  game.  He  imagined  the  guard  had  gone 
to  sleep  on  the  square,  and  as  they  were  watching  for  the 
big  break,  why,  of  course,  that  made  them  all  the  stricter. 
The  guard  tried  to  save  himself,  but  they  wouldn't  listen. 

"Then  'Sir  Harry'  went  to  work  on  the  next  part  of 
the  plot.  He  had  told  the  Captain  that  there  were  to 
be  a  bunch  of  guns  come  in,  and  that  he  was  gradually 
working  up  to  the  point  where  he  could  get  them.  I've 
never  been  able  to  figure  out  why  Harry  did  this.  The 
scheme  was  all  right  without  guns.  But  I  suppose  his 
imagination  ran  away  with  him. 

"At  any  rate,  he  told  the  Captain  the  guns  were  going 
to  be  brought  in  by  one  of  the  night  guards,  and  that  the 
guard  was  to  get  $500  for  it.  Of  course,  this  night  guard 
didn't  know  anything  about  the  drug  stunt.  He  was  to  be 


200  My  Life  in  Prison 

a  victim  of  that  himself,  but  without  knowing  it.  In  other 
words,  Harry  made  the  Captain  think  this  guard  was 
being  double-crossed. 

"There  was  an  old  feller  cooking  in  the  Red  Front  that 
used  to  be  a  Chief  of  Police  somewhere  back  East.  He 
came  out  here  and  got  ten  years  for  killing  a  man  over  a 
claim.  Having  been  a  policeman,  he  naturally  had  a  nose 
for  any  kind  of  crooked  work,  and  Harry  knew  this.  So, 
to  strengthen  his  play  with  the  Captain,  he  acted  sus- 
piciously around  the  cook,  so  that  the  cook  got  to  watch- 
ing him. 

"That  was  what  Harry  wanted.  He  would  stop  the 
night  guards  as  they  came  in  and  take  them  over  in  a  cor- 
ner and  speak  low,  asking  some  simple  question,  or  com- 
menting on  the  weather,  and  the  cook  got  it  into  his  head 
that  'Sir  Harry*  was  dealing  with  the  guards.  He  tore 
over  to  the  Captain  with  this  information,  and  he  told 
him  to  keep  an  eye  on  Harry  and  report  everything  he 
saw.  But  this  was  not  because  the  Captain  suspected 
Harry,  or  because  he  wanted  to  put  a  watch  over  him. 
He  simply  didn't  want  the  cook  to  get  in  on  the  big  game, 
and  told  him  to  watch  Harry  so  that  he'd  think  he  was 
doing  the  Captain  a  service.  Harry  knew  that  this  would 
happen.  It  was  part  of  his  plan. 

"Have  you  been  able  to  follow  all  this?"  Morrell  sud- 
denly asked  me. 

"Yes,"  I  replied ;  "I  think  so.    Go  ahead !" 

"Of  course,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  'Sir'  Harry  was  deal- 
ing with  the  guards,  and  he  knew  the  cook  was  watching 
every  move  he  made.  He  knew  that  the  cook  had  cut  a 
slit  in  the  screen  between  the  kitchen  and  dining-room  so 
that  he  could  see  everything  that  took  place.  As  I  said 
before,  this  was  what  Harry  wanted.  His  game  was  to 
have  the  story  he'd  peddled  to  the  Captain  look  as  if  it 
was  all  on  the  square.  If  the  cook  saw  him  hobnobbing 


Donald  La-tone  201 

with  certain  guards  and  ran  to  the  Captain,  thinking  he 
was  doing  a  service,  why,  of  course,  the  Captain  would 
think  the  plot  was  working  out. 

"So  Harry  told  one  of  the  gaurds  he'd  give  him  $20  for 
a  five-pound  box  of  choice  tobacco,  and  one  night  the 
guard  brought  this  box  of  tobacco  inside  with  him  as  he 
was  going  on  duty  at  midnight  and  slipped  it  to  Harry. 
The  cook  was  rubbering  through  his  peep-hole  and  saw 
the  move,  just  as  Harry  intended. 

"The  next  morning  'Sir'  Harry  waited  until  he  saw  the 
cook  go  to  the  office  and  report,  and  then  he  went  over 
himself  and  took  the  Captain  in. 

"  'Well,  I've  got  the  guns,'  he  said.  'They  came  in 
last  night,  and  Morrell  and  I  have  just  planted  them  in 
the  lower  yard.  The  break  comes  off  next  Sunday  night.' 

"  'You've  done  what  ?'  fairly  shrieked  the  Captain. 
'Planted  the  guns  with  Morrell  ?  God,  man,  are  you  crazy  ? 
Go  get  'em.  Get  'em  as  fast  as  you  know  how.  Planting 
guns  with  Morrell!  I  gave  you  credit  for  having  brains, 
Harry !  You  should  have  brought  'em  straight  to  me.' 

"At  this  Harry  pretended  he  was  scared. 

"  'I'm  sorry,  Captain.  I  thought  that  was  all  under- 
stood. They  knew  the  guns  were  coming  last  night,  and 
if  I  hadn't  produced  them  they'd  have  got  suspicious  right 
away.' 

"  'Oh,  rats !'  replied  the  Captain.  'You  could  have 
stalled  'em  along  for  a  day  or  two.  But  never  mind  now, 
Harry;  it's  too  late.  Still,  the  damage  may  be  undone 
if  you  hustle.  Go  and  dig  up  that  plant  and  get  it  up 
here  as  fast  as  you  know  how.  What  in  hell  were  you 
thinking  of,  anyway,  planting  guns  in  the  lower  yard?'  " 

"Sir  Harry  pretended  to  be  completely  overcome  at 
the  terrible  blunder  he  had  made,  and  tottered  from  the 
office  and  down  to  the  lower  yard.  Of  course,  he  didn't 
find  the  plant — there  wasn't  any  to  find,  except  in  his 


202  My  Life  in  Prison 

fiendish  imagination.  He  came  back  with  his  face  all 
white. 

"  'My  God,  Captain,'  he  quailed,  'they're  gone !  Don't 
punish  me;  I  didn't  mean  any  harm.  And  we'll  get  'em 
again.  They'll  have  'em  next  Sunday  night  when  the 
pinch  comes  off,  and  it'll  be  easy  to  get  them.' 

"The  Captain  went  straight  up  in  the  air.  He  came 
very  near  tearing  into  Harry,  he  was  so  mad.  But  he 
quieted  down  after  a  bit  and  reasoned  the  thing  out.  He 
knew  he  was  helpless  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
get  the  guns,  because  a  move  like  that  would  put  the  gang 
wise  and  also  give  away  the  fact  that  the  plot  was  known. 
Then  he  went  into  a  second  rage  and  abused  Harry  worse 
than  at  first.  It  was  right  there  that  'Sir'  Harry  made 
one  of  his  master  strokes.  Talk  about  Rodin  or  any  other 
arch-crook — they  were  never  in  it  with  Harry. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  Captain's  rage  Harry  stopped 
him,  pretending  to  be  sore,  pretending  that  his  dignity 
was  hurt. 

"  'I'm  through  with  the  entire  business,'  he  said.  'After 
all  I've  done  for  you  people  all  I  get  is  abuse.  You  can 
do  what  you  like  with  me,  but  I  wash  my  hands  of  the 
whole  thing  right  here.  If  you'll  leave  me  alone  I'll  get 
this  entire  bunch  for  you,  guns  and  all,  but  if  you  think 
you're  so  wise,  why,  go  ahead  and  finish  the  thing  up. 
This  is  a  fine  way  to  treat  a  man  after  what  I've  done 
for  you.  Why,  man,  they'd  kill  me  like  a  dog  if  they 
knew.  You  people  ought  to  be  protecting  me  instead  of 
handing  me  this  kind  of  a  deal.' 

"It  was  a  great  grandstand  play,  and,  of  course,  the 
Captain  fell  for  it.  He  apologized  and  craw-fished,  and 
had  a  hard  time  getting  'Sir'  Harry  quieted  down  and 
persuading  him  to  go  ahead  with  the  plot. 

"  'I'll  go  ahead  on  one  consideration,'  said  Harry,  'and 
that  is  that  I  get  a  pardon  as  soon  as  this  thing  is  over. 


Donald  Lowrie  803 

My  life  won't  be  worth  a  snap  of  your  fingers  if  I  stay 
here,  and  what  I'm  doing  means  a  whole  lot  to  you  peo- 
ple.' 

"The  Captain  consulted  the  Warden,  and  Harry  was 
promised  a  pardon. 

"  'All  right,'  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  got  the  promise. 
'I'll  go  ahead,  but  leave  me  alone.  If  you  people  keep  on 
meddling  you'll  queer  the  whole  thing.  Even  as  it  is 
the  gang  may  be  on.  Some  one  may  have  piped  me  look- 
ing for  that  plant  this  morning.  It  was  a  mistake  to  go 
down  there  and  look  for  it.'  " 

Morrell  stopped  and  got  a  drink  from  the  pitcher  of 
ice  water  in  the  corner  of  the  clothing  room  before  con- 
tinuing. 

"Have  you  been  able  to  follow  me?"  he  asked,  as  he 
turned  to  resume  his  seat. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  I  replied.  "But  I  never  heard  a  more 
devilish  thing  in  my  life,  and  there  are  some  parts  of  it 
that  I  don't  quite  savvy,  but  go  ahead,  I  want  to  hear  the 
finish.  I  can  get  you  to  explain  afterward." 

Morrell  hitched  his  chair  closer  and  tapped  me  on  the 
knee. 

"Well,  the  stage  is  set.  Now  we'll  have  the  hair-raiser. 
But  keep  one  thing  in  your  mind.  I  didn't  know  a  thing 
about  all  this  at  the  time — not  a  solitary  thing.  I  didn't 
even  know  there  was  any  talk  of  a  break. 

"I  was  asleep  in  my  cell  that  Sunday  night  when  the 
door  suddenly  banged  open  and  two  guards  rushed  in  and 
pounced  on  me.  Ordinarily  I  hear  the  least  little  out  of 
the  way  sound  at  night,  but  they  unlocked  that  door  so 
easy  that  I  didn't  hear  them,  and  it  was  only  as  they  flung 
it  open  and  rushed  in  that  I  woke  up. 

"You  can  imagine  how  I  felt.  I  didn't  know  what  was 
up.  The  first  thing  that  flashed  into  my  mind  was  that 
it  was  some  kind  of  a  scheme  for  killing  me.  Naturally, 


204  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  put  up  a  fight,  though  they  had  all  the  best  of  it,  and 
I  was  so  badly  tangled  up  in  the  blankets  that  I  couldn't 
do  much.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  that  hit  me,  but  all 
of  a  sudden  everything  went  black,  and  my  head  felt  as  if 
it  had  gone  down  into  my  stomach. 

"It  only  lasted  a  minute,  and  when  I  recovered  I  was 
weak  and  dizzy,  and,  they  had  no  trouble  handling  me. 
One  of  them  held  me  while  the  other  searched  the  bunk. 
He  was  all  excited  and  tore  the  mattress  to  pieces.  I  won- 
dered what  he  was  looking  for,  but  didn't  say  anything. 
Finally  the  one  who  was  holding  me  said,  'Let's  take  him 
below.  We've  got  to  get  a  few  more,  and  we  can  lock 
the  cell  and  come  back  afterward.  They  may  be  in  the 
ventilator  or  some  place.' 

"Without  even  letting  me  put  on  my  clothes  they  pulled 
me  out  of  the  cell,  took  me  along  the  tier  and  then  across 
the  yard  to  the  dungeon.  I  saw  other  men  being  brought 
along,  too,  and  I  couldn't  make  it  out.  When  I  got  to  the 
dungeon  the  Captain  and  Warden  were  there. 

"  'Well,  did  you  get  a  gun  on  this ?"  asked 

the  Captain  as  I  was  shoved  in. 

"  'No ;  no  sign  of  a  gun  yet,'  replied  the  guard  who 
had  me  by  the  neck. 

"The  Captain  snorted  and  helped  shove  me  into  one  of 
the  cells,  and  they  banged  the  door  on  me.  I  heard  quite 
a  lot  of  commotion  for  the  next  half  hour  or  so,  as  they 
kept  bringing  more  men  down,  and  then  everything  got 
quiet.  Then  I  heard  a  man  swearing  and  recognized  the 
voice  of  George  S ,  a  lifer  that  I  knew  pretty  well. 

"'Hello,  George;  is  that  you?'    I  called. 

"  'Yes ;  who  are  you  ?'  he  called  back. 

"  'Ed  Morrell,'  I  answered.    'What  does  all  this  mean?' 
"  'Why,  it  means  that  we've  all  been  double-crossed. 
Somebody's  tipped  the  whole  thing  off  and  we're  all  up 
against  it ;  and  up  against  it  good  and  hard.' 


Donald  Lowrie  205 

"George  was  one  of  the  men  in  on  the  commitment  deal 
and  I  thought  that  was  what  he  was  talking  about. 

"  'Well,  all  we've  got  to  do  is  keep  mum,'  I  told  him ; 
'but  I  don't  understand  that  talk  about  guns.' 

"By  this  time  the  others  were  talking,  and  as  near  as  I 
could  make  out  there  were  ten  or  twelve  men  in  the  dun- 
geon, all  in  different  cells,  and  all  trying  to  find  out  what 
it  meant. 

"I  tried  to  get  George  to  talk  some  more,  but  he  said  it 
was  risky. 

"  'They  may  have  a  spotter  locked  up  down  here,'  he 
warned.  'You  can  never  tell.' 

"Well,  all  that  night  I  lay  mum,  afraid  to  talk  for  fear 
there  might  be  a  spotter  in  one  of  the  dungeon  cells,  as 

George  S had  said.  But  when  day  broke  we  all  got 

calling  to  each  other  and  found  out  who  was  in  each  cell. 
Every  cell  was  full  and  there  wasn't  any  chance  of  a  spot- 
ter being  down  there. — You've  been  down  there,  haven't 
you?"  Morrell  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "I  went  down  one  day  with  the  turn- 
key, the  day  that  fifty-year  Chinaman  in  the  tailor  shop 
cut  that  fellow  over  by  the  gate  at  No.  1  Post.  The 
turnkey  wanted  to  get  a  statement  from  the  chink,  and  he 
took  me  along  to  take  it  in  shorthand,  but  the  Chinaman 
wouldn't  talk." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that,"  Morrell  replied.  "Have  you 
ever  been  down  there  yourself ;  that  is,  have  you  ever  been 
in  the  hole?" 

"No,"  I  answered.     "Why?" 

"Well,  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  it  never  really 
gets  light  down  there  in  the  daytime.  Just  a  kind  of  dusk, 
something  like  you  see  in  a  long  tunnel  with  a  curve  in  it 
when  you  first  get  near  the  mouth ;  you  know  what  I  mean. 

"It  was  long  before  the  bell  rang  that  we  all  got  talking 
and  found  out  who  was  down  there.  That  was  the  first  I 


206  My  Life  in  Prison 

learned  about  the  break  that  was  supposed  to  be  pulled  off 
the  night  before ;  how  the  guards  were  to  be  drugged  and 
all  that;  how  'Sir'  Harry  was  to  go  up  and  unlock  the 
first  cell  and  let  the  poor  sucker  out  that  had  spent  weeks 
making  skeleton  keys  for  unlocking  the  cells  of  the  other 
guys  in  the  plot. 

"By  making  these  keys  he  had  been  taking  awful 
chances.  He  might  have  been  nailed  any  time  and  had  it 
thrown  into  him. 

"Well,  George  and  I  got  to  talking,  and  the  other  fel- 
lers were  talking  from  cell  to  cell,  and  that  helped  to  cover 
up  what  we  were  saying.  You  really  don't  talk  down 
there ;  you  have  to  shout  back  and  forth  so's  to  be  heard. 
It  ain't  like  solitary,  because  they  don't  stay  in  the  cells 
next  to  each  other  in  the  dungeon  long  enough  to  learn 
a  code.  Up  in  solitary  we  used  to  talk  back  and  forth 
by  tapping  on  the  wall. 

"  'What  was  that  talk  about  guns  I  heard  last  night  ?" 
I  asked  George. 

"  'Damned  if  I  know,'  he  said.  'I  don't  know  anything 
about  any  guns.  The  first  I  heard  of  guns  was  when  they 
pinched  me.  I  was  standing  at  my  cell  door,  waitin'  to  be 
let  out  for  the  break,  as  I  thought,  when  the  bulls  sneaked 
up  and  unlocked  the  door  quick  and  nailed  me.  They 
nailed  all  us  fellers  with  our  clothes  on,  all  ready  and 
waiting.  That's  what  makes  it  so  bad.  We  can't  ex- 
plain what  we  were  doing  all  dressed  at  that  hour  of  the 
night. 

"  'I  got  the  word  in  the  yard  at  lockup  last  night  that 
my  cell  would  be  unlocked  about  1  o'clock,  and  to  be  all 
ready.  It  certainly  is  a  fierce  deal.  Whoever  gave  it 
away  was  on  the  inside,  for  they  knew  just  what  cells  to 
go  to,  and  they  caught  us  dead  to  rights.' 

"  'But  how  about  the  guns  ?'  I  asked.  'Do  you  know 
anything  about  guns?' 


Donald  Lowrie  £07; 

"  'No,'  he  replied,  'That's  what  gets  me.  They  asked 
me  for  a  gun  the  first  thing.  I  don't  understand  it.' 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  they  started  in  try- 
ing to  make  us  tell  where  the  guns  were.  They  didn't 
have  any  jacket  in  those  days,  you  know.  The  jacket 
was  the  invention  of  Aguirre.  They  hung  us  to  the  walls 
of  our  cells  in  the  dungeon.  Of  course,  none  of  us  knew 
anything  about  any  guns,  so  we  couldn't  tell  them  if  we'd 
wanted  to.  They  cut  our  rations  down  to  a  little  piece 
of  bread  and  a  sup  of  water  every  twenty-four  hours,  and 
kept  us  chained  up  to  the  wall  about  fourteen  hours  each 
day. 

"At  night  we  had  nothing  to  sleep  on  but  the  stone 
floor;  no  mattress  or  blankets  or  anything.  About  the 
third  day  some  of  the  guys  began  to  scream  and  curse 
and  beg  for  mercy,  but  they  paid  no  attention.  Then  it 
got  to  be  a  regular  hell,  with  screaming  and  cursing  and 
crying  all  the  time.  You  can  imagine  how  they  felt. 

"Some  of  them  were  lifers  like  me,  and  from  high  hopes 
of  beating  the  place  they  suddenly  found  themselves  with 
everything  lost,  and  being  tortured  to  tell  something  they 
didn't  know.  I  wouldn't  go  through  that  again  for  any- 
thing in  the  world,  not  even  for  pardon.  Not  alone  on 
account  of  what  I  suffered  so  much  myself,  but  to  hear 
those  others  praying  to  God. to  kill  them — God  Almighty ! 
my  blood  turns  to  ice  every  time  I  think  of  it. 

"After  a  week  they  began  to  let  some  of  them  out.  I 
didn't  know  what  became  of  them,  but  every  little  while 
they'd  come  down  and  take  some  guy  away.  And  every 
time  they  came  down  to  get  a  guy  they'd  come  to  my  cell 
and  open  the  door  and  ask  me  if  I  was  ready  to  tell  what 
I  knew  about  the  guns. 

"Looking  at  it  the  way  they  did,  I  can  understand  a 
little.  They  thought  there  were  guns  in  the  prison  and 
that  some  of  us  knew  where  they  were.  As  long  as  those 


208  My  Life  in  Prison 

guns  were  not  found  there  was  danger  of  a  break  and  some 
killing.  They  thought  they  had  the  men  who  knew  where 
the  guns  were,  and  they  made  up  their  minds  to  make 
them  tell.  But  it  was  on  me  especially  that  the  most  sus- 
picion fell. 

"You  see,  'Sir'  Harry  had  told  the  Captain  that  he  had 
planted  the  guns  with  me  in  the  lower  yard,  and  then  he'd 
pretended  that  the  plant  had  been  lifted.  Naturally,  they 
thought  I'd  done  the  lifting. 

"I  found  out  afterward  that  they  got  the  guard  that 
was  supposed  to  have  brought  the  guns  in,  and  charged 
him  with  it.  At  first  he  denied  bringing  anything  in,  but 
they  brought  the  cook  who  had  seen  him  slip  the  package 
to  'Sir'  Harry,  and  'Sir'  Harry  claimed  that  he  under- 
stood that  the  package  contained  guns.  He  said  that 
was  the  understanding,  and  that  when  he  got  the  package 
he  hadn't  opened  it,  but  planted  it  in  the  lower  yard  with 
me. 

"As  soon  as  the  guard  found  out  that  he  was  suspected 
of  bringing  in  guns  he  got  scared  and  told  the  truth — 
told  them  that  it  was  a  package  of  tobacco.  But  they 
wouldn't  believe  hiirt.  He'd  denied  bringing  anything  in 
at  first — you  see,  he  didn't  want  to  lose  his  job — and  then 
when  he  learned  how  serious  it  was  and  told  the  truth 
they  wouldn't  believe  him.  They  thought  he  was  claiming 
it  was  tobacco  because  he  knew  it  was  a  felony  to  bring 
in  the  guns. 

"But  when  he  found  that  they  still  believed  he  had 
brought  in  guns  he  got  sore  and  told  them  it  was  up  to 
them  to  prove  it.  The  only  way  they  could  prove  it  was 
by  getting  the  guns.  Do  you  see  how  hellish  it  all  was  ? 

"And  then,  to  make  matters  worse,  the  guard  got  cold 
feet,  thinking  they  might  railroad  him  anyway,  and  beat 
it  while  his  shoes  were  good.  Of  course,  that  made  things 


Donald  Lowrie  S09 

look  all  the  worse.  They  imagined  he'd  disappeared  be- 
cause he  was  guilty. 

"Finally,  after  torturing  some  of  the  other  boys  for  a 
month,  they  concluded  that  they  didn't  know  anything 
about  the  guns,  and  that  I  had  kept  them  hid  to  produce 
at  the  last  minute.  So  the  whole  thing  simmered  down 
to  me.  Just  stop  and  think  of  the  fix  I  was  in.  I  was 
charged  with  knowing  where  guns  were  concealed  inside 
the  walls,  and  they  were  going  to  make  me  tell  where. 

"I  kept  telling  them  that  I  didn't  even  know  there  was 
to  be  a  break,  and  the  strongest  point  I  made  was  that  I 
didn't  have  my  clothee  on,  but  was  asleep  in  bed  when 
they  pinched  me,  but  they  took  that  as  a  sign  that  I  was 
slicker  than  the  rest  of  the  bunch,  and  that  I  had  stayed 
in  bed  so's  not  to  take  any  chance  of  being  caught  up. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  long  I  stayed  in  the  dungeon, 
chained  to  the  wall,  but  think  it  was  thirty-three  or  thirty- 
four  days,  and  then  I  was  handcuffed  and  taken  up  to 
solitary  in  the  dead  of  the  night. 

"All  but  two  or  three  of  the  rest  of  those  that  had  been 
pinched  were  back  in  the  yard,  wearing  red  shirts  and 
with  their  credits  gone,  but  I  went  to  solitary." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"I've  never  been  able  to  understand  why  'Sir'  Harry 
played  me  this  trick.  The  only  way  I  can  figure  it  out 
is  that  he  was  sore  because  he  knew  I  had  tried  to  use 
him  on  that  commitment  deal;  that  it  hurt  his  pride  to 
think  I  took  him  for  such  a  sucker,  and  that  in  working 
up  this  other  scheme  he  expected  would  get  him  a  pardon 
he  landed  on  me  as  the  fall  guy  in  the  gun  fairy  tale. 

"But  now  comes  the  funniest  part  of  the  whole  thing. 
When  they  found  out  that  they  couldn't  get  the  guns, 
what  do  you  suppose  they  did?  They  pinched  'Sir*  Harry 
himself,  and  instead  of  giving  him  a  pardon  they  threw 
him  up  in  solitary. 

"I  remember  the  day  he  came  up.  They  put  him  in 
the  cell  next  to  me.  When  I  heard  the  noise  at  the 
main  door,  and  the  low  talking,  I  got  up  to  my  door  and 
rubbered,  and  I  saw  'Sir'  Harry  led  by.  He  looked  like 
skimmed  milk — his  face  was  blue-white — but  he  didn't  see 
me.  And  he  was  in  the  cell  next  to  me  for  several  days 
before  he  found  out  I  was  in  the  next  cell  to  him. 

"You  must  remember  I  didn't  know  then  that  he  was 
the  cause  of  my  being  up  there.  I  had  heard  from  George 

S that  he  was  in  on  the  big  break  scheme  and  that  he 

was  the  man  who  was  supposed  to  drug  the  coffee  and  un- 
lock the  first  cell,  but  I  didn't  know  that  he  was  the  man 
who  had  named  me  as  being  mixed  up  in  the  scheme,  and 

210 


Donald  Lowrie  211 

the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head  when  I  saw  him 
was  that  he  had  been  nailed  on  the  commitment  deal. 

"It  was  not  until  two  weeks  later,  when  I  was  taken  out 
to  appear  before  the  board  and  was  confronted  with  the 
evidence  against  me,  that  I  learned  that  'Sir'  Harry  had 
roped  me  in.  I  was  all  excited  at  the  moment,  trying  to 
convince  the  board  that  I  was  innocent,  and  it  nearly 
floored  me.  As  soon  as  I  recovered  I  demanded  that  they 
bring  Harry  out  and  have  him  face  me.  They  refused 
to  do  this,  and  then  I  went  in  the  air.  I  don't  know  what 
I  said.  I  was  so  mad  I  just  tore  loose,  but  I  do  know 
one  thing,  and  that  was  that  I  was  sentenced  to  go  to 
solitary  confinement  and  stay  there  until  I  told  where 
the  guns  were  concealed. 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  how  I  felt  when  they  took  me 
back.  I  threw  myself  on  the  mattress  and  tore  it  with 
my  teeth.  It's  the  only  time  in  my  life  that  I  went  to 
pieces  that  way.  I  didn't  get  normal  for  three  or  four 
days,  but  was  in  a  kind  of  trance,  and  every  time  the 
guard  came  near  my  door  I  abused  him.  Of  course,  that 
got  me  in  bad  with  the  guards  up  there,  and  they  made 
my  life  a  regular  hell. 

"And  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  kill  'Sir'  Harry  the 
first  time  I  got  a  chance.  I  hope  I  shall  never  have  the 
same  feelings  toward  any  other  man  as  long  as  I  live. 

"I  used  to  lie  awake  nights  and  listen  to  him  breathing 
and  think  how  I'd  fasten  my  nails  in  his  neck  and  choke 
the  life  out  of  him.  I'd  choke  him  until  he  was  almost 
unconscious,  and  then  let  go.  Then,  after  he  had  got 
his  breath  a  little,  I'd  choke  him  again,  and  then  let  go. 
Then  I'd  do  it  again  and  again,  making  him  weaker  and 
weaker  all  the  time,  until  finally  I'd  get  him  into  such  a 
state  that  he'd  die  a  thousand  times.  Oh,  don't  look  that 
way,"  Morrell  exclaimed  as  my  expression  changed  to 
one  of  horror.  "That  wasn't  me  that  was  thinking  those 


My  Life  in  Prison 

things^ — it  was  an  insane  man.  I  was  dippy,  clean  bug- 
house. That's  why  I  understand  Jake  Oppenheimer  so 
well.  You  know  he  was  up  there  with  me  those  five  years, 
and  I  know  that  he  got  just  such  deals  from  men  that  he 
took  into  his  confidence.  They'd  pretend  to  be  his  friends 
and  get  some  plans  of  his  for  a  break  from  solitary — and 
that  was  the  only  hope  he  had  of  ever  getting  out,  remem- 
ber— and  then  peddle  it  to  the  guards  so's  to  get  out  of 
solitary  themselves. 

"Just  stop  and  imagine  how  you'd  feel  if  you  got  that 
kind  of  a  deal.  Wouldn't  you  have  murderous  thoughts, 
and  wouldn't  they  grow  on  you  until  you  felt  as  if  the 
whole  world  was  against  you? 

"It  took  me  two  years  to  get  under  Oppenheimer's  shell, 
two  years  of  tapping  on  the  wall — he  was  in  the  cell  on 
the  other  side  of  me — with  a  note  passing  between  us  once 
in  a  great  while,  and  then  he  got  to  trust  me.  But  after 
I  had  known  him  for  three  years  he  still  had  moments  of 
doubt.  One  day  he  rapped  and  asked  me  why  I  didn't 
get  out  of  solitary. 

I  "  'All  you've  got  to  do,'  he  said,  'is  tell  them  that  I've 
got  some  new  scheme  for  beating  them.  I'll  stand  in  with 
you.  I'll  pretend  I'm  working  on  a  scheme  and  you  give 
it  away.  There's  no  use  of  us  both  staying  up  here,  and 
this  will  get  you  out.  And  you  can  do  me  more  good  then 
than  you  can  do  me  now.  We  can  fix  it  up  so's  you  can 
smuggle  something  up  here  to  me — something  worth  while 
that  I  can  cut  my  way  but  with.' 

"But  I  didn't  fall  for  it.  I  knew  he  was  giving  me  the 
final  test;  he  was  trying  to  see  if  I  was  willing  to  profit 
at  his  expense.  For  over  a  week  he  kept  urging  me  to  do 
|as  he  suggested,  but  I  wouldn't  listen.  The  temptation 
.never  even  occurred  to  me.  I've  thought  a  good  deal  about 
it  since,  trying  to  figure  out  what  it  was  that'  was  strong- 
est in  me — my  sympathy  for  Jake  or  my  hatred  for  the 


Donald  Lowrie  213 

guards.  You  see,  by  adopting  his  scheme  I'd  have  had 
to  serve  the  guards,  and  before  I'd  have  done  that,  es- 
pecially at  the  expense  of  another  poor  con,  I'd  have  rot- 
ted by  inches  from  my  toes  up. 

"That's  how  I  got  solid  with  Oppenheimer.  Always 
after  that  we  were  close  friends,  and  I  got  his  entire  life 
from  him.  Some  day  I  hope  I  can  get  it  into  print.  Talk 
about  a  tragedy !  Talk  about  being  born  under  a  hoo- 
doo !  Jake  Oppenheimer  is  the  hardest  luck  man  I've 
ever  known.  It's  no  wonder  to  me  he's  done  some  of  the 
things  he  has.  He's  insane,  except  with  persons  he  likes. 
Anyone  else  that  comes  near  him  he  takes  for  an  enemy, 
and  the  only  code  he  knows  after  what  he's  been  through 
is  that  a  dead  enemy  is  a  good  friend.  But  I'm  getting 
away  from  my  own  story.  I'll  tell  you  more  about  Op- 
penheimer some  other  time. 

"Well,  I  got  a  good  many  doses  of  the  jacket  after  that 
and  it  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to  kill  me  by  inches. 
Many  a  time  I  thought  it  was  curtains.  But  the  day  I 
got  kicked  gave  me  a  new  lease  on  life.  Those  kicks  hurt 
my  body,  hurt  it  so  that  I  still  feel  it  down  here,  but  they 
set  my  mind  afire.  I  determined  to  live  it  out  and  get  back 
at  them  if  it  took  the  whole  of  my  life. 

"One  day  while  I  was  lying  in  the  jacket  Aguirre  came 
up  and  made  a  final  effort  to  make  me  'come  through.' 
He  stuck  his  finger  close  to  my  eye  and  made  motions  as 
if  he  was  going  to  jab  his  nail  in  and  tear  my  eyes  out. 
Of  course,  I  closed  my  eyes  instinctively,  but  I  remember 
how  I  watched  his  fingers,  hoping  that  he  would  get  them 
close  enough  to  my  mouth  for  me  to  grab  them.  I  was 
in  a  frenzy,  lying  there  helpless,  not  able  to  move,  and  if 
I'd  ever  got  his  fingers  in  my  teeth  they'd  have  had  to  kill 
me  before  I'd  let  go. 

"But  after  I'd  been  up  there  six  or  seven  months  they 
gave  me  up.  They  decided  that  I  would  never  tell  where 


214  My  Life  in  Prison 

the  guns  were.  We  were  not  allowed  any  reading  matter, 
and  to  keep  from  going  crazy  I  started  working  on  my 
invention — that  is,  working  it  out  in  my  head.  I  didn't 
have  any  pencil  or  paper;  that  wasn't  allowed,  either. 
I've  made  the  drawings  since  I  got  out  and  sent  them  on 
to  Washington,  and  I  ought  to  hear  from  them  any  day. 
It's  a  life-saving  device. 

"I  also  killed  some  of  the  time  learning  the  telegraph 
code  we  had  up  there.  We  had  a  system  of  tapping  on 
the  wall  from  one  cell  to  another,  and  that  was  the  only 
way  we  had  of  talking,  though  Jake  had  a  piece  of  lead 
that  had  dropped  out  of  the  point  of  a  pencil — you  know 
how  a  pencil  point  breaks  off  sometimes — and  he'd  send 
me  a  note  once  in  a  while.  He  kept  the  little  piece  of  lead 
hid  in  his  cell.  Of  course,  it  was  hard  for  him  to  get  paper 
to  write  on,  but  once  in  a  while  he'd  manage  it  and  get 
a  note  to  me.  It  was  risky,  and,  of  course,  he  had  to 
nurse  the  little  piece  of  lead,  for  he  couldn't  tell  when 
he'd  ever  get  another  piece. 

"They  used  to  search  our  cells  every  week.  That  al- 
ways seemed  funny  to  me — searching  the  cells  of  men  in 
solitary  confinement,  with  guards  walking  up  and  down 
in  front  of  the  doors  all  the  time. 

"But  still  we  used  to  get  contraband  things,  just  the 
same,  and  they  knew  it.  Of  course,  Jake's  little  piece  of 
lead  was  so  small  they  never  found  that.  It  was  Jake 
that  they  were  most  afraid  of.  I  never  saw  a  man  with 
more  determination  in  my  life.  They  say  hope  springs 
eternal  in  the  human  breast.  His  breast  must  be  awful 
deep.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  hope. 

"But  he's  always  scheming  for  a  getaway.  It  don't 
make  any  difference  how  often  he's  caught,  he  starts  right 
in  on  some  new  plan. 

"Solitary  confinement  never  did  any  man  any  good. 


Donald  Lozvrie 

Repression  don't  reform  a  man  any  more  than  chaining 
up  a  dog  makes  him  gentle. 

"I  remember  a  horse  I  had  once  in  the  mountains.  He 
was  a  wonder  for  travelling.  He  could  go  all  day  and  all 
night  on  the  remembrance  of  a  handful  of  oats.  But  he  was 
a  regular  demon;  he'd  kick  or  bite  you  if  you  gave  him 
the  least  chance,  and  his  sides  were  raw  from  where  the 
spurs  had  been  dug  into  him.  I  made  a  hard  trip  with 
that  horse.  We  were  alone  with  the  sky  and  the  rocks. 
At  first  I  had  to  be  awful  careful  with  him,  and  he  nearly 
got  me  three  or  four  times.  But  I  never  hit  him,  I  never 
stuck  the  spurs  into  him,  and  every  chance  I  got  I  would 
pet  him  and  talk  to  him  and  hustle  something  for  him  to 
eat. 

''Before  the  three  weeks  were  over  I  had  him  following 
me  around  like  a  lamb  and  when  the  time  came  for  us  to 
part  it  was  one  of  the  toughest  things  I've  ever  done. 
I  often  think  of  those  three  weeks  and  how  we  got  to  know 
each  other.  I  think  I  thought  more  of  God  in  those  three 
weeks  than  I  ever  have  in  my  life. 

"Well,  men  are  just  like  that  horse.  I  don't  care  how 
bad  a  man  has  been,  he  can  be  got.  But  solitary  confine- 
ment, with  the  j  acket  and  kicks  and  abuse,  will  never  make 
a  man  better.  I'm  not  as  good  a  man  as  I  was  before  I 
went  up  there." 

"But  you're  going  to  keep  straight  now  and  do  the 
right  thing,  Ed,"  I  interrupted,  "and  before  you  went  up 
there  you  were  what  they  call  a  hard  character  and  al- 
ways in  trouble.  How  do  you  explain  the  change?" 

Morrell  half  closed  his  eyes  and  regarded  me  search- 
ingly. 

"You  don't  believe  that,"  he  said.  "You  don't  really 
think  I'm  being  good  because  I'm  afraid  of  solitary,  do 
you  ?" 

"But  wha?  else  am  I  to  think?"  I  asked. 


216  My  Life  in  Prison 

"Well,"  he  responded,  an  inflection  of  disappointment 
in  his  voice,  "I'll  wind  up  the  'Sir'  Harry  story  and  tell 
you  a  few  more  things,  and  then  you  can  judge  for  your- 
self. 

"Some  time  after  we  were  put  up  there  they  discovered 
the  commitment  deal,  and  they  came  up  and  accused  'Sir5 
Harry  of  it.  He  was  a  total  wreck  by  that  time.  He'd 
collapsed  like  a  balloon  with  the  gas  leaking  out  through 
a  big  wound.  You  see,  he'd  never  been  up  against  hard- 
ships like  some  of  us.  He'd  never  slept  out  under  the  stars, 
or  climbed  over  the  ranges  with  twenty  or  thirty  sharp- 
shooters on  his  trail  a-thirsting  for  his  blood.  He  was  of 
the  dry  goods  variety,  the  kind  that  tip  their  hats  to 
their  knees  when  they  meet  a  woman,  but  funk  like  a 
yellow-tail  when  it  comes  to  protecting  her  from  actual 
danger.  He  had  the  gift  of  gab  and  a  Little  Lord  Faunt- 
leroy  nicety,  but  his  backbone  was  rubber  and  he  couldn't 
stand  punishment.  He  was  continually  begging  the  guards 
to  let  him  see  the  Warden,  and  when  he  found  out  that 
they  wouldn't  do  that  he  begged  them  to  see  the  Warden 
for  him. 

"When  the  commitments  were  sprung  he  belched  every- 
thing he  knew.  They  had  quite  a  time  getting  new  com- 
mitments— I  learned  that  underground. 

"Then  he  came  through  with  the  truth  regarding  the 
gun  story.  He  told  them  it  was  all  a  fake,  and  that  the 
box  the  guard  gave  him  that  night  in  the  Red  Front  was 
a  box  of  tobacco,  but  they  wouldn't  believe  him.  He  did 
every  day  of  his  time  in  solitary,  and  was  discharged  from 
there. 

"Well,  for  five  years  I  lay  up  there  and  I  finally  got  so 
I  wouldn't  talk  to  anyone.  Whenever  the  Warden  or  any- 
one else  came  up  I  used  to  turn  my  back  when  they  came 
to  my  cell.  Drahms,  the  chaplain,  used  to  blow  in  about 
once  in  two  months,  and  it  was  am*si»g.  Some  of  the 


Donald  Lowrie 

guys  imagined  he  could  help  them  get  out  and  used  to 
talk  with  him;  and  then  when  he'd  show  up  again  he'd 
stop  before  the  same  cell  of  some  guy  that  he'd  talked 
with  for  half  an  hour  the  last  time  he  was  up  and  say : 

"  'My !  My !  What  are  you  up  here  for?  What  is  your 
name?' 

"One  day  a  Mexican  was  brought  up  and  put  in  the  end 
cell,  right  where  the  guard  sits  outside.  I  don't  know 
what  happened,  but  this  guard  got  it  in  for  the  Mexican. 
He  found  out  that  it  annoyed  the  Mexican  to  have  him 
in  front  of  the  cell,  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  did?  He 
used  to  put  his  chair  right  in  front  of  the  door  and  swing 
back  and  forth  on  the  hind  legs,  smoking  a  cigar  and 
watching  the  man  in  the  cage  the  same  as  if  he'd  been 
a  wild  beast. 

"We  all  felt  that  there  was  something  wrong — it  was  in 
the  air — and  one  day  while  the  guard  was  sitting  there 
swinging  back  and  forth  in  his  chair,  humming  a  song,  the 
Mexican  went  bughouse.  He  crouched  back  against  the 
end  of  his  cell  and  then  took  a  running  leap  at  the  barred 
door,  at  the  same  time  letting  a  yell  out  of  him  like  a 
tiger.  When  he  hit  the  door  it  buckled,  and  the  whole 
building  shook.  The  guard  happened  to  be  swinging  back 
when  this  happened  and  he  kept  on  going. 

"I  rushed  to  the  door  of  my  cell  to  see  what  was  the 
matter  and  I  saw  the  guard's  face  when  he  picked  himself 
up.  He  was  on  his  hands  and  knees  looking  at  the  cell 
and  he  was  trembling  all  over.  His  watch  had  slipped  out 
of  his  pocket  and  was  dangling  underneath  him,  and  his 
eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  paralyzed.  The  poor  Mexi- 
can was  lying  in  a  heap  inside  the  cell.  He'd  knocked 
himself  out. 

"When  he  came  to  he  screamed  and  snarled  and  clawed, 
and  they  had  to  send  for  extra  guards  to  get  him  into 
the  jacket.  He  kept  us  all  awake  for  a  week  and  then 


218  My  Life  in  Prison 

quieted  down.  About  two  weeks  after  that  they  found  him 
eating  his  hand  one  night — just  tearing  big  chunks  out  of 
it  with  his  teeth  and  snarling  like  a  hyena.  That  settled 
it.  It  dawned  on  them  that  he  was  crazy  and  they  took 
him  to  the  asylum.  I've  been  told  he  died  of  blood  poison 
in  a  couple  of  weeks. 

"But  it  changed  that  guard.  He  used  to  go  around 
with  a  kind  of  scared  look  after  that  and  was  always  ask- 
ing us  if  there  was  anything  he  could  do  for  us.  It  all 
goes  to  show  that  a  man  has  got  to  have  his  heart  pulled 
out  by  the  roots  sometimes  and  dangled  all  bloody  and 
dripping  before  his  eyes  before  he  finds  out  he's  human 
like  the  rest  of  us.  That  happened  before  'Sir'  Harry's 
time  was  up  and  every  night  after  that  I  used  to  hear  him 
praying,  and — well,  I  know  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself  for  saying  it,  but  hanged  if  I  didn't  feel  sorry  for 
him. 

"It's  an  awful  thing  to  see  a  man  go  crazy  like  that 
Mexican.  I  know  I  began  to  get  a  creepy  feeling,  and  it 
used  to  keep  me  busy  fighting  it  off.  I  used  to  wake  up 
in  the  night  with  a  boa-constrictor  winding  itself  about  me 
and  squeezing  my  life  out,  and  when  I'd  find  out  it  was 
only  a  dream  the  guard  would  come  sneaking  to  my  cell 
to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"Not  being  but  half  awake  I  wouldn't  hear  him,  and 
when  he'd  suddenly  pop  up  in  the  doorway  it  used  to  throw 
me  into  a  cold  sweat  sometimes.  In  the  daytime  it  didn't 
make  any  difference  how  much  they  sneaked — they  wear 
felt  slippers,  you  know — we  always  heard  them  coming. 

"But  when  a  man's  half  awake  in  a  bad  dream  his  hear- 
ing ain't  so  good.  I  suppose  it  was  the  squeezings  in  the 
jacket  that  used  to  make  me  dream  of  that  snake,  and  I 
have  the  same  dream  yet,  only  not  so  often. 

"The  years  dragged  along  and  I  seemed  to  be  forgot- 
len.  One  day  is  so  much  like  another  up  Ihere  in  solitary 


Donald  Lowrle  £19 

that  It  is  hard  to  keep  track  of  time.  But  on  Christmas 
and  Fourth  of  July  we  got  a  holiday  dinner  and  were 
given  a  little  tobacco,  and  I  got  so  I  measured  time  that 
way. 

"It  was  five  years  after  I  was  dragged  out  of  my  cell 
and  thrown  into  solitary,  and  I  was  shuffling  up  and  down 
my  little  cage  one  afternoon  when  a  strange  man  came 
along  the  corridor  and  stopped  at  my  door.  He  was 
stoop-shouldered  and  had  a  white  moustache,  and  his  voice 
wasn't  bad.  I  had  got  so  I  never  paid  any  attention  to 
anyone,  and  when  he  stopped  at  my  cell  I  didn't  pay  any 
attention  to  him.  I  was  moving  toward  the  door  when 
he  showed  up,  and  when  I  got  there  I  turned  and  started 
back. 

"  'Here,  my  man,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,'  he  said. 

"  'But  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,'  I  answered. 

"'What's  the  matter;  have  you  got  a  cold?'  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  make  any  reply,  but  kept  on  walking,  and 
every  time  I  walked  toward  the  door  I  glared  at  him.  But 
it  didn't  seem  to  bother  him;  he  stuck  right  there.  Pre- 
sently he  started  off  on  another  tack. 

"  'I'm  the  new  Warden,'  he  announced.  'I  don't  know 
you  and  you  don't  know  me,  but  I  want  to  do  the  right 
thing  by  every  man.  Let's  get  acquainted.' 

"I  was  still  defiant,  but  something  made  me  stop  at 
the  door  and  talk  with  him.  I  soon  saw  that  I  had  him 
interested,  and  I  told  him  the  entire  story  and  about  being 
charged  with  knowing  where  there  were  guns  concealed  in 
the  prison.  He  listened  to  every  word  and  asked  a  lot  of 
questions.  Then  he  declared  himself. 

"  'I  believe  you're  innocent,5  he  said.  'I  know  you're 
innocent  and  I'm  going  to  prove  it.  What  will  you  do  if 
I  take  you  out  of  here  and  give  you  a  trusted  position?' 

"Even  then  my  pride  would  not  let  me  seem  eager — 
the  wound  was  too  deep  for  that — so  I  said:  'What  will 


820  My  Life  In  Prison 

I  do?  Why,  I'll  throw  you  down  cold.  I'll  double-cross 
you  the  first  chance  I  get.  I'll  start  scheming  right  away 
for  getting  a  ton  of  dynamite  smuggled  in  and  blow  up 
the  prison.' 

"This  kind  of  staggered  him — I  could  see  that — but 
he  smiled. 

"  'Oh,  I  know  better  than  that,'  he  said.  'But  suppose 
I  take  you  at  your  word?  Remember,  I'm  the  Warden. 
If  I  feel  inclined  to  believe  what  you  say  I  can  go  away 
with  a  clear  conscience  and  leave  you  here.  Come,  now, 
what  will  you  do  if  I  give  you  the  chance?' 

"I  didn't  like  that.  It  was  too  much  like  trying  to 
break  my  spirit.  Rather  than  knuckle  down  I  was  bit- 
ter enough  to  throw  away  the  chance  of  my  life.  Of 
course,  I  was  a  fool  to  act  that  way,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it. 

"  'I've  been  throwing  people  down  and  cutting  their 
throats  all  my  life.  I'm  no  good.  I  don't  know  what 
honor  is.  But  if  you  want  to  give  me  a  chance  to  cut  your 
throat,  why,  all  right.' 

"At  this  he  flared  up  and  started  to  walk  away.  But 
he  only  took  a  couple  of  steps  and  then  came  back. 

"  'I'm  going  to  turn  you  out  of  here  to-morrow  and 
I'm  going  to  give  you  one  of  the  best  jobs  in  the  prison. 
You're  not  going  to  throw  me  down,  either.  That's  all,' 
and  off  he  went. 

"That  was  my  introduction  to  Warden  Tompkins,  and 
you  know  how  he  has  kept  his  word.  As  long  as  he  lives, 
and  as  long  as  I  live,  we're  going  to  be  true  to  each  other. 
I'll  stand  up  for  him  no  matter  what  he  does.  He's  my 
friend  and  he  gave  me  this  chance.  It  means  that  I'll  be 
able  to  work  my  way  out  in  a  few  years,  and  that  means 
my  life. 

"Now  do  you  understand  why  I'm  behaving  myself,  why 


Donald  Lowrie 

I'm  not  giving  them  any  trouble?  Do  you  still  think  it 
is  because  I'm  afraid  of  solitary?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Ed,"  I  apologized.  "This  is  all 
new  to  me.  You  know  nearly  all  the  prisoners  believe  you 
did  some  kind  of  dirt  to  get  out  of  solitary  and  into  the 
job  you've  got.  I  never  believed  that,  but  I  often  won- 
dered how  it  came  about.  I  see  it  all  now.  Tompkins  got 
puffed  at  the  way  you  treated  him,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self, 'I'll  show  this  fellow  that  I'm  just  as  game  as  he  is. 
Instead  of  letting  him  defy  me,  I'll  defy  him.1  Am  I 
right?" 

Morrell  scratched  his  head  before  replying. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Don't  you  give  him  credit 
for  wanting  to  do  a  kindness,  for  wanting  to  right  the 
wrong  that  had  been  done  me?"  he  asked. 

During  the  years  that  followed  Morrell  proved  his 
worth  in  a  thousand  ways.  He  not  only  did  his  work  thor- 
oughly, but  he  was  always  optimistic.  There  seems  to  be 
a  general  opinion  that  a  man  who  has  gone  through  se- 
vere punishment  must  be  pessimistic  and  bitter.  My  ex- 
perience tends  to  establish  the  contrary.  I  find  that  per- 
sons who  have  suffered  most,  especially  persons  of  intense 
nature,  are  softened  and  broadened  by  it.  There  wasn't 
any  silver  spoon  in  the  manger  at  Bethlehem. 

After  several  years  as  head  key-man  Morrell  succeeded 
in  getting  a  commutation  of  sentence.  Very  well,  indeed, 
do  I  remember  the  night  it  arrived.  The  Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor  visited  the  prison  in  person  and  brought  several 
pardons  and  commutations  with  him.  At  previous  visits 
to  the  prison  he  had  met  and  learned  to  know  Morrell  per- 
sonally, and  that  night  he  and  the  Warden  came  inside 
after  lock-up  to  break  the  good  news  to  the  various  bene- 
ficiaries. 

Morrell  took  it  quite  coolly.  True,  he  had  been  ex- 
pecting a  commutation,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  should 


222  My  Life  in  Prison 

have  clisplayed  more  joy  than  he  did.  But  I  have  since 
come  to  understand  this  seeming  indifference  on  the  part 
of  the  men  who  have  been  in  prison  a  long  time  when  they 
suddenly  learn  that  they  are  to  be  released.  They  have 
become  so  inured  to  suppression  that  the  emotions  are 
lethargic.  By  long  disuse  the  emotional  nature  has  seeped 
away,  so  that  the  capacity  for  responding  to  sudden  good 
or  benefit  is  gone. 

Men  of  this  type  have  what  I  call  the  prison  face — a 
kind  of  settled,  melancholy  expression  of  which  they  are 
totally  unconscious.  I  have  seen  men  of  jovial,  light- 
hearted  nature  sink  into  this  state  of  chronic  gloom,  and 
it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  see. 

Instead  of  rejoicing  at  his  good  fortune,  Morrell 
thanked  the  Governor  in  a  few  brief  words,  and  then  took 
him  to  one  side.  I  happened  to  be  standing  within  ear- 
shot and  heard  what  he  said. 

"Governor,  there's  an  old  soldier  up  in  the  hospital,  an 
old  chap  that  fought  for  the  flag  before  we  were  born,  or 
while  we  were  shaking  rattles  and  saying  'goo-goo.'  He 
can't  live  long,  and  he  don't  want  to  die  in  prison.  He 
killed  an  old  comrade,  while  they  were  both  drunk.  He 
says  he  didn't  mean  to  do  it,  and  I  believe  him.  He's  doing 
twenty  years  for  it,  and  he's  got  six  years  left.  There's 
no  chance  for  him  to  live  it  out.  Will  you  come  up  and 
see  him?" 

"Get  the  keys,"  replied  the  Governor,  "and  you  come 
over  with  me." 

They  went  across  the  flower  garden  to  the  hospital  and 
up  into  the  ward,  where  they  remained  half  an  hour. 
When  they  came  back  the  prison  band  was  playing  and 
there  was  a  happy  expression  on  the  Governor's  face. 
Three  days  later  when  he  returned  to  Sacramento  his  first 
official  act  was  to  sign  pardons  for  the  old  soldier  and 
another  man  whom  he  had  discovered  in  a  near-by  bed,  a 


Donald  Lowrie 

man  whose  wife  and  children  needed  him  more  than  did 
the  bolts  and  bars  of  San  Quentin. 

All  this  happened  four  years  ago.  Morrell  has  been 
a  free  agent  during  that  time  and  he  has  "made  good." 
I  saw  him  the  other  day.  The  gloom  has  lifted  from  his 
face  and  his  eyes  are  animated.  He  does  not  look  like  the 
man  I  knew  behind  the  prison  walls — certainly  not  any- 
thing like  the  corpse-like  creature  they  brought  down 
from  solitary  confinement1  the  first  time  I  saw  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

While  talking  with  Mr.  H.  B.  Warner  of  the  "Alias 
Jimmy  Valentine"  company,  a  few  days  ago,  he  recounted 
an  incident  that  occurred  while  he  was  visiting  the  State 
Penitentiary  in  Pennsylvania. 

"I  was  on  one  of  the  tiers  with  the  Warden,"  he  said, 
"when  a  fellow  in  a  strait  jacket  came  walking  toward  us 
in  charge  of  two  guards.  He  was  " 

"Walking  in  a  strait  jacket?"  I  rudely  interrupted. 
"Walking?  What  kind  of  a  strait  jacket  was  it?" 

"Why,  the  ordinary  kind,"  replied  Mr.  Warner.  "His 
arms  were  fastened,  but  he  was  moving  his  elbows,  and  he 
Was  very  eager  to  see  the  Warden." 

Mr.  Warner  continued  the  story,  but  I  did  not  hear 
him.  I  was  thinking  of  what  he  had  said  about  the  strait- 
jacket  he  had  seen. 

I  have  been  mentioning  the  "jacket"  in  this  narrative 
from  time  to  time,  and  I  shall  have  occasion  to  mention 
it  as  I  continue.  I  am  wondering  how  many  of  you  have 
a  true  conception  of  what  the  jacket  used  in  the  California 
prisons  is  like.  Probably  you  imagine  it  is  the  ordinary 
strait  jacket,  such  as  Mr.  Warner  saw,  and  such  as  is  gen- 
erally used  in  insane  asylums  for  confining  the  arms  of 
violent  patients.  You  are  wrong.  The  San  Quentin  jacket 
is  something  different.  It  certainly  should  be  described. 
;It  is  a  form  of  punishment  and  torture  that  the  people  of 


Donald  Loierie 

California  are  negatively  permitting.  You  are  entitled 
to  know  something  definite  about  it. 

The  jacket  consists  of  a  piece  of  canvas  about  four  and 
one-half  feet  long,  cut  to  fit  about  the  human  body.  When 
spread  out  on  the  floor  it  has  the  same  shape  as  the  top 
of  a  coffin,  broad  near  one  end,  for  the  shoulders,  and 
tapering  either  way.  Big  brass  eyelets  run  down  the  sides. 
It  is  manufactured  in  various  sizes,  and  is  designed  solely 
as  an  instrument  of  torture. 

Upon  being  sentenced  to  the  jacket,  the  prisoner  is 
first  taken  to  the  clothing  room,  where  he  is  stripped  of 
the  clothing  he  has  on  and  is  given  an  old  suit,  consisting 
of  shirt,  trousers  and  wornout  shoes. 

A  guard,  armed  with  a  loaded  cane,  then  escorts  him 
to  the  dungeon,  where  a  straitacket  that  will  fit  snugly 
is  selected.  This  jacket  is  spread  out  on  the  floor  and 
the  prisoner  ordered  to  lie  face  down  upon  it.  The  sides 
are  then  gathered  up  over  his  back  and  a  rope  about  the 
size  of  a  window  cord  is  laced  through  the  eyelets. 

If  the  word  has  been  passed  to  "give  him  a  cinching," 
the  operator  places  his  foot  upon  the  victim's  back  in 
order  to  get  leverage  as  he  draws  the  rope  taut,  and  when 
the  lacing  is  finished  the  remnant  of  rope  is  wound  about 
the  trussed  body  and  tied.  Then  the  victim  is  rolled  over 
on  his  back  and  left  to  think  it  over.  He  is  left  in  one  of 
the  dungeon  cells,  where  there  is  no  light  and  where  it 
is  cold  and  damp. 

Several  years  ago  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  pris- 
oner to  be  rolled  in  old  blankets  before  the  jacket  was 
applied.  This  was  done  for  two  reasons.  First,  if  the 
prisoner  were  thin  the  blankets  eliminated  any  possibility 
of  the  jacket  fitting  him  loosely;  second,  when  it  was  de- 
sired to  give  the  victim  a  "sweat"  as  well  as  a  squeeze, 
the  blankets  served  that  purpose. 

At  that  time  there  was  no  limit  to  the  duration  of  this 


226  My  Life  in  Prison 

punishment.  Twenty-four  hours  was  the  ordinary  sen- 
tence, but  I  know  many  cases  where  men  were  kept  "cinched 
up"  for  a  week,  and  in  one  instance  for  ten  days.  Just 
stop  and  think  what  that  meant.  Bound  in  a  coarse,  heavy 
canvas  so  that  the  hands  and  legs  were  held  rigid,  and 
left  to  lie  without  relief  for  days.  Trussed  up  on  Mon- 
iday  and  not  untrussed  until  the  following  Sunday.  Dur- 
ing that  time  the  victim  must  remain  recumbent,  without 
moving,  and  could  only  vary  his  position  by  rolling  over 
on  his  side  or  upon  his  face  on  the  stone  floor. 

True,  an  old  mattress  was  provided,  but  most  men,  in 
their  terrible  misery,  rolled  off  it  and  could  not  get  back. 
Meantime  bodily  excretions  could  not  be  denied — there  is 
a  limit  to  such  repression — and  the  victim  was  compelled 
to  suffer  the  added  horror  of  near-mortification.  Once 
each  day,  in  the  evening,  attendants  used  to  go  down  and 
hold  a  tin  of  water  and  a  crust  of  bread  to  the  victim's 
lips.  This  was  known  as  "feeding  time." 

When  the  jacket  was  laced  brutally,  as  was  frequently 
the  case,  the  victim  could  scarcely  breathe.  His  hands 
and  feet  would  "die,"  they  would  become  cold  and  inani- 
mate, and  he  would  suffer  the  pins-and-needles  sensation 
that  one  gets  if  one  holds  the  feet  or  arms  in  one  posi- 
tion for  any  length  of  time.  Quite  often  when  the  jacket 
was  removed  the  victim  could  not  stand,  but  was  obliged 
to  grovel  and  wriggle  on  the  floor  like  a  snake  to  restore 
circulation.  And  when  the  blood  began  to  return  to  the 
(deadened  parts  the  torture  was  excruciating. 

I  have  talked  with  men  who  claimed  that  they  got  to 
their  feet  while  in  the  jacket.  One  man  told  me  that  it 
took  him  half  an  hour  to  accomplish  it,  but  by  rolling 
over  to  the  corner  of  the  cell  and  working  inch  by  inch 
in  the  angle  of  the  wall  he  managed  to  rise. 

"But  after  I  got  on  my  feet  I  was  sorry,"  he  said. 
"There  I  was  standing  in  a  corner,  with  my  feet  bound 


Donald  Lowrie 

close  together,  and  I  didn't  know  how  I  was  going  to  get 
down  again.  If  I  let  my  feet  go  out  in  front  of  me  I'd 
go  down  with  a  crash,  even  with  my  back  against  the  wall 
and,  of  course,  I  didn't  dare  go  down  on  my  face. 

"I  stood  there  for  half  an  hour,  I  guess,  not  daring  to 
move,  and  then  I  decided  to  jump  for  the  mattress.  I 
couldn't  see  it,  but  I  thought  I  knew  where  it  was.  I'd 
been  in  the  jacket  three  days  when  this  happened,  and  I 
was  weak.  When  I  made  the  jump  I  must  have  got  ex- 
cited, for  I  tried  to  spread  my  feet  as  I  came  down  and 
I  feel  forward.  My  face  scraped  the  plaster  off  the  wall 
on  the  other  side  of  the  cell  as  I  fell,  and  I  had  no  way 
to  stop  the  blood. 

"I  lay  that  way  until  the  next  night  when  they  came 
in  to  'feed,'  and  then  I  got  bailed  out  for  what  had  hap- 
pened. They  thought  I'd  deliberately  rubbed  my  face 
against  the  wall  to  make  it  bleed." 

Other  men  have  told  me  that  while  being  laced  in  the 
jacket  they  would  extend  their  elbows  and  double  up  their 
fists  and  hold  themselves  rigid  in  an  effort  to  keep  from 
being  bound  too  tightly,  and  then,  after  the  jacket  was 
on,  relax  and  be  comparatively  comfortable. 

This  trickJiad  its  danger,  however.  If  the  officer  who 
was  adjusting  the  jacket  discovered  this  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  victim  to  "beat  it,"  he  would  pull  and  tug 
at  the  ropes  all  the  harder.  If  the  victim  did  not  relax  he 
would  be  caught  and  bound  in  the  rigid  condition  and 
would  be  unable  afterward  to  relax.  Then  his  punish- 
ment would  be  doubly  horrible,  resulting  in  paralysis. 

I  have  already  recounted  two  instances  of  men  who 
were  taken  from  the  jacket  in  a  paralytic  condition,  one 
of  whom  died  shortly  afterward. 

These  facts,  and  others  equally  horrible,  finally  got  to 
the  ears  of  the  Legislature.  A  committee  was  appointed 
to  investigate  and  spent  a  number  of  days  at  each  prison. 


My  Life  in  Prison 

But  instead  of  finding  that  the  jacket  was  inhuman  and 
injurious,  as  the  evidence  disclosed  it  to  be,  they  recom- 
mended that  its  use  be  regulated. 

Acting  on  this  recommendation,  the  State  Board  of 
Prison  Directors  adopted  a  resolution  to  the  effect  that 
a  prisoner  should  not  be  kept  in  the  strait  jacket  for 
more  than  six  consecutive  hours.  Since  then  the  jacket 
has  been,  and  is  at  the  present  time,  used  in  both  State 
prisons  under  this  regulation.  It  is  applied  for  six  hours ; 
then  the  victim  is  permitted  the  freedom  of  the  cell  for 
six  hours,  and  then  he  spends  the  next  six  hours  in  the 
jacket. 

There  is  no  regulation  limiting  the  period  of  time  that 
this  alternation — six  hours  in,  six  hours  out — may  Ke 
continued.  Not  only  this,  but  realizing  that  as  a  means 
of  extorting  "confession"  the  torture  of  the  jacket  has 
been  reduced  by  the  six-hour  limit,  it  is  "cinched"  with 
much  greater  severity.  I  know  of  instances  of  compara- 
tively recent  occurrence  where  the  victim  has  screamed 
and  begged  for  mercy  within  the  hour,  after  being 
"cinched  up." 

A  trusty,  known  as  the  "dungeon  man,"  has  a  little 
shack  just  outside  the  dungeon  door,  and  J[  have  seen 
him  come  up  to  the  office  and  report  that  a  man  who  had 
been  jacketed  for  half  an  hour  was  ready  and  eager  to 
"confess." 

From  no  viewpoint  can  the  straitjacket  be  defended. 
It  is  purely  and  simply  a  relic  of  barbarism.  It  accom- 
plishes no  good.  I  have  never  seen  one  man  who  has  suf- 
fered punishment  in  the  jacket  who  was  not  filled  with 
bitterness  and  who  was  not  a  worse  man  by  reason  of 
the  humiliation  and  torture  he  had  been  through.  As 
a  means  of  discipline  it  has  absolutely  no  value. 

Under  the  present  administration  at  San  Quentin,  the 
jacket  has  been  used  sparingly.  At  the  present  time  it 


Donald  Lowri 

is  scarcely  used  at  all;  yet  the  discipline  of  the  prison 
has  steadily  improved.  Under  the  Warden  now  in  charge 
there  is  little  danger  of  any  prisoner  being  abused,  and 
yet  there  is  always  the  possibility.  A  Warden  cannot 
know  everything  that  transpires  within  the  walls.  His 
duties  are  numerous,  and  he  must  necessarily,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  expediency  and  dignity,  delegate  the  disciplining 
of  the  prison  to  a  subordinate.  So  long  as  this  is  so, 
injustices  may  and  do  occur,  as  I  shall  show  later. 

Again,  there  is  no  assurance  that  the  prisons  will  al- 
ways be  governed  by  fair  and  capable  men.  Death  and 
politics  are  both  uncertain  factors.  The  strait  jacket 
as  a  method  of  punishment  should  be  abolished  by  legis- 
lative enactment.  It  was  introduced  by  a  truculent  War- 
den. Why  should  a  humane  one  continue  to  use  it,  even 
only  on  rare  occasions? 

I  will  recount  but  one  flagrant  case  of  torture  and  in- 
justice connected  with  its  use. 

The  victim's  name  was  Brown,  a  common  name  that  I 
will  make  use  of,  as  I  have  done  with  other  names,  in 
order  not  to  bring  unpleasantness  upon  the  persons  in- 
volved, many  of  whom  are  now  free  agents  and  some 
of  whom  I  have  met  since  I  bgan  this  narrative. 

Brown  was  accused  of  having  dope  or  of  knowing 
where  it  was  concealed  inside  the  prison  walls.  When  ar- 
rested and  confronted  with  this  charge  he  denied  having 
any  knowledge  of  it.  In  some  way,  probably  through 
the  malevolence  of  a  stool-pigeon,  the  officials  believed 
they  had  the  right  man,  and  Brown  was  placed  in  the 
jacket  and  told  that  he  would  be  kept  there  until  he 
"came  through." 

Poor  Brown  had  nothing  to  tell — his  case  was  on  a 
parity  with  Morrell's  in  that  respect — and  he  suffered 
days  of  torture  as  a  consequence.  He  was  kept  in  the 
jacket  130  hours — 136  hours  it  may  have  been;  I  am 


230  My  Life  in  Prison 

trusting  to  memory,  and  am  not  quite  sure — ancj 
was  then  released  because  the  doctor  said  he  could  stand 
no  more. 

This  punishment  left  him  a  physical  wreck,  and  he 
never  recovered.  It  was  subsequently  established  beyond 
doubt  that  he  was  innocent,  and  the  facts  were  presented, 
to  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors,  who  addressed 
a  letter  to  Governor  Gillett  recommending  Brown  to 
clemency  on  the  ground  that  his  health  had  been  perma- 
nently impaired  by  his  having  been  tortured  in  the  jacket 
on  a  charge  of  which  he  was  innocent. 

On  the  strength  of  this  communication  Governor  Gil- 
lett pardoned  Brown.  This  letter  must  be  on  file  at  Sac- 
ramento, and  constitutes  the  most  damning  indictment 
against  the  system.  The  directors  knew  what  had  oc- 
curred, the  Governor  knew  what  had  occurred,  and  yet 
the  jacket  remained  in  use. 

Only  a  few  weeks  after  Brown  had  been  pardoned  an- 
other man  was  subjected  to  the  same  torture  and  for 
the  same  reason.  He  was  the  telegraph  operator  in  the 
^Warden's  office,  and  was  accused  of  having  introduced 
opium  into  the  prison.  He  also  strenuously  denied  the 
charge,  and  was  "cinched"  in  the  jacket  to  make  him 
confess.  Having  poor  Brown  in  mind,  he  gave  up  after 
83  hours'  torture  and  "confessed."  I  met  this  man  on 
Market  Street  the  other  day,  and  he  told  me  the  story 
anew. 

"Why  did  you  confess  when  you  were  innocent?"  I 
asked. 

"What  could  I  do?"  he  replied.  "I  didn't  know  any 
more  about  the  charge  they  had  against  me  than  Brown 
knew  about  his  charge,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  at  the 
start  that  I'd  die  rather  than  say  I  was  guilty.  But  the 
more  I  suffered  and  the  more  I  thought  of  what  Brown 
looked  like  the  day  he  left,  all  broken  up,  so  that  he 


Donald  Lowrie 

wrould  never  be  any  good  again,  the  weaker  I  got,  and 
finally,  after  I  could  stand  no  more,  I  told  them  I  did  it. 

"You  know  what  happened.  The  same  old  story.  I 
tfas  sent  to  the  mill  when  I  could  hardly  walk,  and  when 
the  board  of  directors  met  it  took  them  about  three  min- 
utes to  take  my  credits.  That's  a  great  stunt  of  the 
board  of  directors.  It  takes  four  of  them  to  grant  a 
parole,  but  three  of  them  can  forfeit  a  man's  credits  in 
a  couple  of  minutes. 

"And  another  thing  you  don't  want  to  forget  is  how 
they  used  to  make  a  man  go  to  work  as  soon  as  he  got 
out  of  the  jacket.  I've  seen  men  thrown  into  the  jacket 
on  Saturday  afternoon  for  not  having  their  tasks  done 
for  the  week,  stay  there  on  bread  and  water  until  Mon- 
day morning,  and  then  be  run  to  the  mill  and  expected 
to  get  out  their  tasks  for  the  next  week.  If  they  failed 
it  was  a  case  of  the  jacket  again  over  the  next  Sunday. 
A  couple  of  fellows  went  crazy  under  this  kind  of  a  deal. 

"Talk  about  the  Spanish  Inquisition  and  people  being 
monsters  in  those  days!  Huh!  I  guess  the  world's  just 
about  the  same,  only  things  were  done  in  the  open  then, 
and  now  they're  done  under  cover. 

"I  went  through  that  torture,  and  I've  never  been  the 
same  man  since.  I'll  never  be  the  same  man  again,  and 
you  can  see  that  for  yourself.  Yet  I'm  not  a  criminal, 
and  never  was.  I  got  in  there  because  I  took  a  chance 
when  I  was  driven  into  a  corner,  and  the  eight  years  they 
gave  me  was  certainly  punishment  enough. 

"And  now  here  I  am  eking  out  an  existence,  working 
nine  or  ten  hours  a  day,  and  the  very  man  who  put  the 
jacket  on  me  and  had  the  say  on  how  long  I  should  stay 
in  it  is  drawing  his  little  $165  a  month  for  that  kind  of 
work.  Isn't  that  enough  to  make  a  man  turn  bitter  and 
tempt  him  to  fight  back?  Of  course  it  is,  and  it's  just 
thoughts^like  wiose  that  make  many  a  man  persist  in 


My  Life  in  Prison 

going  wrong.  You  and  I  may  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  it's  a  sucker  game,  and  keep  from  butting  our  heads 
against  a  stone  wall,  but  lots  of  them  don't. 

"And  there's  no  telling  what  day  some  other  unfortu- 
pate  will  get  the  same  kind  of  a  deal,  is  there?  All  this 
talk  about  improving  prison  conditions  and  making  the 
prisons  serve  a  good  purpose  instead  of  a  bad  one  makes 
,me  tired.  I'm  not  saying  that  a  man  shouldn't  be  sent 
to  prison  when  he  breaks  a  law.  I've  got  sense  enough  to 
see  both  sides  of  it. 

"Take  my  own  case,  for  instance.  Here  I  am  working 
hard  for  what  I  get.  Suppose  some  one  breaks  into  my 
room  or  holds  me  up  on  the  street  and  takes  away  what 
belongs  to  me,  what  I've  worked  hard  to  get.  I'd  be  sore ; 
I'd  want  protection ;  I  might  even  want  revenge,  although 
after  what  I've  been  through  myself  I'm  not  so  sure  about 
the  revenge  part.  But  I  can  understand  other  people 
wanting  revenge;  it's  human  nature.  But  that's  the  spirit 
that  kills  all  the  good.  I  don't  say  that  the  prisons 
should  be  made  summer  resorts,  or  that  the  life  should 
be  one  continual  round  of  pleasure,  but  I  do  say  that 
when  it  is  necessary  to  send  a  man  to  prison  he  should  be 
treated  as  if  he  was  almost  human,  and  then  maybe 'after 
a  while  they'd  find  out  that  he  really  is  human. 

"Plenty  of  fresh  air,  a  good  place  to  sleep,  clean  food, 
work  that  he'd  take  an  interest  in,  with  pay  for  what  he 
'did,  and,  above  all,  no  torture.  What  would  you  think 
of  a  mother  or  father  who  wasn't  sure  that  one  of  their 
children  had  swiped  jam  from  the  closet,  and  landed  on 
the  first  one  they  got  hold  of  and  tortured  it  until  it 
confessed?  And  if  that  child  went  wrong  afterward,  who 
would  you  blame?  That's  a  fair  question,  and  the  case 
is  parallel. 

"A  man  commits  a  crime,  gets  kicked  into  the  peniten- 
tiary, and  then  a  lot  of  self-righteous  peoj^e  call  it  senti- 


Donald  Lowrie  233 

ment  when  someone  has  the  intelligence  to  ask  that  he 
get  a  square  deal  and  be  given  a  chance  to  learn  some- 
thing and  redeem  himself,  so  that  when  he  comes  out  he 
will  be  a  better  man  and  do  the  right  thing. 

"This  old  system  has  been  tried  a  good  many  years, 
hasn't  it?  Why  not  try  something  else  and  see  how  it 
works.  If  it  don't  pan  out  there  wouldn't  be  anything 
lost,  and  they  could  go  back  to  the  old  scheme  again. 

"But  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  and  I  believe  you 
see  it  the  same  way.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  seeing 
it  that  way.  It's  up  to  you  to  make  other  people  see  it 
that  way,  and  don't  fall  down ;  don't  show  the  white  feath- 
er. If  certain  people  that  never  do  any  thinking  above 
their  waist,  or  only  through  a  dollar  sign,  call  it  mush, 
let  them.  But  the  time  is  coming  when  people  are  go- 
ing to  think  about  these  things.  Lots  of  them  are  think- 
ing that  way  now. 

"Remember,  Lowrie,  there's  several  thousand  of  us  fel- 
lows keeping  tab  on  you.  Stick  to  facts.  Tell  all  the 
good  things  you  can,  but  for  the  love  of  Mike  keep  your 
mitts  out  of  the  soft  soap.  And  don't  forget  to  show 
that  chaining  and  muzzling  a  dog,  and  kicking  him  when- 
ever you  feel  like  it,  never  makes  him  a  fit  subject  to  go 
loose,  especially  when  he's  hungry.  So  long." 


CHAPTER  XX* 

There  is  a  band  at  San  Quentin  which  practises  everj 
night,  but  the  night  before  a  man  is  hanged  the  instru- 
ments are  mute.  There  isn't  any  rule  about  it — the  band 
could  practise  on  hang-day  eve  if  they  wanted  to — but 
the  throes  of  the  human  soul  in  the  death  chamber  above 
will  not  permit.  In  one  instance  a  condemned  man  sent 
down  word  that  he  would  like  to  have  music  for  his  last 
night.  The  death  chamber  is  some  distance  from  the 
bandroom,  and  the  blatancy  of  the  brass  instruments  is 
mellowed  into  harmony  when  it  gets  there. 

The  band  has  a  custom  of  playing  a  short  concert  the 
night  before  a  "long-timer"  or  a  popular  prisoner  is  dis- 
charged; also  on  the  night  preceding  the  day  when  a 
"bunch"  of  paroled  prisoners  are  to  leave,  but  this  was 
the  first  and  only  instance  of  a  serenade  for  a  man  who 
was  to  "go  out"  through  the  little  square  hole,  and  with 
a  broken  neck.  The  band  played  for  him,  but  there  were 
many  false  notes,  and  the  music  was  a  wail. 

The   effect   of  an   execution   upon   the   prisoners    can 
scarcely  be  put  into  words,  especially  the  effect  upon  the 
prisoners  who  pass  through  it  for  the  first  time.      Men 
who  remain  in  prison  a  number  of  years  become  more 
or  less  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  a  fellow  creature 
is  to  be  killed  at  precisely  half  past  ten  o'clock  on  Fri- 
Iday  morning.     With  each  additional  execution  they  be- 
come more  indifferent. 

234 


Donald  Lowrie  235 

Passing  through  a  slaughter-house  for  the  first  time — 
and  with  most  persons  it  is  the  last  time — one  is  hor- 
rified to  the  point  of  nausea  at  the  cold-blooded  way  in 
which  life  is  gashed  out,  but  the  men  who  work  there, 
and  those  who  work  in  the  vicinity,  becomed  inured  to 
the  horror,  and  finally  reach  a  state  where  they  think 
nothing  of  it.  It  is  so,  to  some  extent,  with  those  who 
take  human  life  and  with  those  who  are  compelled  to  be 
near  by. 

Men  who  turn  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood  have  been 
known  to  become  the  most  truculent  soldiers,  eager  and 
ready  to  kill  human  beings  wholesale.  Man  may  accus- 
tom himself  to  anything,  but  in  becoming  accustomed  to 
some  things  he  loses  in  manhood.  This  is  true  of  those 
who  hang  human  beings,  and  it  is  true  in  degree  of  those 
who  are  compelled  to  be  contiguous  to  hangings.  In 
this  way  many  men  who  have  been  sent  to  prison,  some 
of  them  for  taking  human  life,  come  to  regard  human 
life  as  cheap.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  a  few  men 
who  suffer  renewed  tortures  with  every  execution,  mak- 
ing their  punishment  doubly  severe. 

In  passing  sentence  the  judges  does  not  say  anything 
about  this  kind  of  punishment.  It  is  an  injustice  to 
prisoners  that  they  should  be  made  to  suffer  it,  and  it 
is,  of  course,  a  blot  on  civilization  that  this  kind  of  cold- 
blooded murder  occurs  at  all.  The  cry  is  that  those  who 
commit  murder  must  be  murdered  in  turn  in  order  that 
society  may  be  protected,  the  theory  being  that  capital 
punishment  acts  as  a  deterrent  to  murder.  Yet,  doing 
it  for  the  sake  of  a  deterrent  influence,  it  is  done  in  a 
sneaky,  shame-faced  way. 

It  requires  from  twelve  to  eighteen  seconds  from  the 
time  a  condemned  man  is  started  from  the  death  chamber 
until  he  is  dangling  at  the  end  of  the  rope.  Why  this 
scientific  swiftness?  Why  the  electric  chair  which  is 


236  My  Life  in  Prison 

supposed  to  snuff  out  life  in  a  flash?  If  the  murder  really 
is  a  deterrent,  why  not  torture  the  victim?  Why  not 
strangle  him  to  death  slowly?  Why  not  do  it  in  the 
market  place,  where  men  and  women  may  come  and  see? 
They  used  to  have  public  executions.  Why  have  they 
ceased  to  be  public?  Because  it  was  found  that  the  sight 
of  a  fellow  creature  being  murdered  in  cold  blood  hard- 
ened those  who  saw  it  done.  It  was  realized  that  such 
a  sight  was  not  good  for  human  eyes  and  hearts. 

And  after  all  is  said  and  done,  it  is  the  poor  man  for 
whom  the  gallows  waits.  During  all  the  years  that  men 
have  been  murdered  by  the  State  at  San  Quentin,  but 
one  man  with  means  has  been  hanged.  Chinese,  Indians, 
negroes,  cholos,  cripples  and  dements  have  died  in  mid- 
air, but  only  one  man  who  had  money.  The  man  with 
money,  or  with  friends  willing  to  spend  money  for  him, 
gets  off  with  "life"  or  a  term  of  years. 

Comparing  the  crimes  of  those  who  have  been  hanged 
with  those  who  are  serving  terms  for  murder,  the  compari- 
son is  all  in  favor  of  the  men  who  died.  In  murder  trials 
where  high-priced  lawyers  are  engaged  it  is  the  oppos- 
ing lawyers,  not  the  defendant,  on  trial.  The  jury,  un- 
consciously, perhaps,  decides  the  case  on  the  strength  of 
the  lawyers. 

Not  so  many  years  ago  there  were  five  cases  of  uxori- 
cide  in  San  Francisco  within  a  period  of  two  weeks.  One 
man  shot  his  young  wife  as  she  lay  in  bed.  He  got 
twenty  years.  Another  went  half  way  across  the  city  to 
where  his  wife  was  living  and  shot  her  to  death  in  the 
presence  of  their  little  children.  He  got  life.  Another, 
a  streetcar  conductor,  cut  his  wife's  throat.  He  got 
ten  years.  Another  shot  his  paramour  on  the  street, 
and  while  she  lay  on  the  sidewalk,  begging  for  her  life, 
emptied  the  revolver  into  her  writhing  body.  He  was 
sentenced  for  life.  The  fifth  man  was  found  lying  in 


Donald  Lowrie  237 

a  drunken  stupor  beside  his  wife's  dead  body.  He  had  a 
revolver  clutched  in  his  hand,  and  could  not  remember 
what  had  occurred — both  had  been  drinking.  He  was 
hanged. 

As  the  time  approached  for  his  execution  nearly  every 
prisoner  was  miserable.  A  strenuous  effort  was  made  to 
get  the  condemned  man  a  commutation  to  life  imprison- 
ment. One  of  the  best  lawyers  in  San  Francisco  was 
induced  to  take  an  active  interest  in  the  case.  Warden 
Hoyle  went  to  Sacramento  to  interview  the  Governor. 
But  the  man  had  been  guilty  of  being  too  poor  to  hire 
an  attorney  at  his  trial.  He  was  hanged. 

Some  condemned  prisoners  try  to  commit  suicide,  but 
such  a  close  watch  is  kept  over  them  that  they  seldom 
succeed.  The  only  man  who  has  accomplished  it  at  San 
Quentin  rushed  out  of  his  cell  when  the  door  was  opened 
in  the  morning  to  pass  in  his  breakfast,  darted  past  the 
guard,  ran  up  the  stairway  to  the  roof  of  the  cell  build- 
ing and  dived  off  to  the  asphaltum  pavement  below.  After 
gaining  the  roof  of  the  building  he  made  three  separate 
starts  to  jump  off  before  he  finally  did  so.  He  kept  run- 
ning back  and  forth  from  the  apex  of  the  slanting  roof 
to  the  edge,  and  it  was  not  until  Captain  Randolph,  who 
had  rushed  over  from  the  office,  was  about  to  grapple 
with  him  that  he  threw  his  body  over.  When  they  picked 
him  up  he  was  conscious.  After  lingering  in  the  hospital 
about  ten  weeks,  during  which  he  suffered  several  amputa- 
tions, and  terrible  agony,  he  died. 

The  day  before  Siemsen  and  Dabner  were  executed  I 
had  occasion  to  go  up  to  the  general  utility  room.  Calm- 
ly, as  though  decorating  a  Christmas  box,  two  striped 
men  were  tacking  cheesecloth  inside  a  coffin.  Close  at 
hand  was  another  coffin,  already  finished.  These  coffins 
were  being  prepared  for  two  human  beings  who  at  the 
moment  were  alive  and  in  good  health. 


238  My  Life  In  Prison 

That  night  when  the  prisoner  who  had  charge  of  the 
execution  room  came  down  to  the  office  I  asked  him  how 
the  two  condemned  men,  or,  rather,  the  man  and  the  boy, 
were  taking  it. 

"Oh,  they're  all  right,"  he  replied.  "But  I've  had  a  hard 
day  of  it.  I  was  hung  six  times  this  afternoon.  You 
see,  they're  going  to  hang  them  together,  and  some  green 
guards  will  have  to  be  used  to  do  the  work.  They  don't 
want  any  delay  or  slips,  so  they  had  me  act  as  a  dummy 
for  the  guards  to  practise  on.  I  went  through  the  whole 
performance  six  times — stood  on  the  trap,  had  my  legs 
strapped  and  the  black-cap  and  rope  over  my  neck.  Ugh ! 
It  was  fierce." 

Later,  talking  with  the  barber  who  shaved  the  con- 
demned men  the  afternoon  before  they  were  executed,  he 
told  me  that  Siemsen  asked  to  have  his  moustache  taken 
off  because  it  would  make  him  "lighter." 

A  few  days  before  the  execution  Dabner's  mother  tot- 
tered out  of  the  prison  gate  for  the  last  time.  The  boy's 
father  had  died  a  few  days  before.  This  mother  was 
unable  to  come  and  see  her  boy  en  the  fatal  morning — 
her  caged  child,  the  being  she  had  suffered  for  and  with 
from  his  first  wail  of  infantile  bewilderment.  He  was 
less  than  20  years  of  age  when  hanged. 

If  the  deterrent  effect  of  example  be  worthy  of  con- 
sideration, why  should  an  atrocious  murder  have  been 
committed  in  the  big  community  where  this  boy  had  lived, 
within  twenty-four  hours  after  his  expiation  of  his  crime? 

Up  on  the  top  floor  of  the  old  sash  and  blind  factory 
at  San  Quentin  there  are  two  gruesome  rooms.  They  are 
large,  airy  rooms,  in  which  the  echoes  of  one's  voice  are 
lost  in  the  white-washed  rafters.  In  the  centre  of  one  of 
these  rooms  are  two  cages,  separated  from  each  other 
by  a  solid  plank  partition.  The  cages  themselves  are 
constructed  of  2x4  timbers  set  a  few  inches  apart.  Inside 


Donald  Lowrie  239 

each  cage  is  a  mattress,  blankets  and  a  bucket — noth- 
ing more.  They  are  known  as  the  death  chambers.  They 
are  used  solely  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  human  beings 
who  have  been  condemned  to  "hang  by  the  neck  until 
dead"  where  they  may  be  closely  watched  during  their 
last  days  on  earth. 

As  a  general  rule  a  condemned  man  is  taken  from 
"Death  Row"  and  imprisoned  in  one  of  these  cages  on 
the  Tuesday  preceding  the  Friday  when  he  is  scheduled 
to  "swing  off."  Once  he  enters  this  cage  he  never  comes 
out,  save  with  hands  lashed  behind  him  for  the  few  steps 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  he  is  to  be  the  central 
figure  in  the  greatest  of  earth's  tragedies. 

In  one  or  two  instances  during  my  life  at  San  Quentin 
condemned  men  were  taken  to  this  chamber  a  week  or  ten 
days  in  advance  of  execution.  A  study  of  their  tempera- 
ment while  awaiting  the  final  decision  in  "Death  Row" 
had  convinced  the  officers^that  they  would  cheat  the  gal- 
lows by  going  the  "Dutch  •ypute"  if  not  closely  watched 
during  the  last  fortnight. 

Leon  Soder  was  confined  in  the  death  chamber  two 
weeks  before  he  was  hanged.  He  had  repeatedly  asserted 
that  he  would  never  die  on  the  gallows. 

Adjoining  the  death  chamber  is  the  execution  room, 
the  place  where  human  beings  are  turned  into  loathsome 
corpses  with  scientific  swiftness,  the  place  where  more 
than  two  score  living,  breathing  men — some  of  them  mere 
boys — have  "paid  the  penalty"  exacted  by  the  law  of  the 
people  of  the  State  of  California. 

Prior  to  1893  each  county  did  its  own  hanging,  but  at 
that  time  a  law  was  passed  designating  the  State  prisons 
as  the  only  places  where  "legal  executions"  should  take 
place.  Since  then  more  than  forty  have  been  executed 
aj;  Folsom,  an  average  of  three  each  year. 


My  Life  in  Prison 

Stand  these  sixty  men  in  an  imaginary  line  and  take 
a  good  look  at  them.  They  are  yours,  you  know. 

What  do  we  see?  First,  we  see  a  number  of  boyish 
faces,  for  we  are  bound  to  be  attracted  by  the  faces  of, 
children.  Then  as  we  sweep  along  the  melancholy  line  we 
see  old  men  with  gray  hair  and  tired  eyes.  Sandwiched 
indiscriminately  along  the  row  are  negroes,  Chinese  and 
Indians.  There  are  men  of  intelligent  countenances  and 
there  are  men  in  whose  eyes  the  light  of  reason  is  absent. 
There  are  fat  men  and  lean  men,  tall  men  and  short  men, 
handsome  and  ugly  men.  But  they  all  have  ceased  to 
breathe.  They  are  all  dead;  and  around  the  throat  of 
each  is  a  little  purple  mark. 

In  taking  up  this  subject  I  am  awed.  I  am  distraught 
with  the  fear  that  I  may  not  do  it  justice.  I  am  filled 
with  a  great  desire  to  tell  what  I  know,  what  I  have  seen 
and  felt,  and  what  other  persons  have  seen  and  felt,  so 
that  each  and  every  one  of  you  may  realize  to  its  fullest 
extent  just  what  the  execution  of  a  fellow  being  means. 
Those  of  you  who  are  squearv/.sh,  those  of  you  who  do  not 
want  to  be  shocked,  those  of  you  who  do  not  feel  that  cap- 
ital punishment  is  of  sufficient  gravity  for  you  to  read 
of  the  effect  it  has  upon  the  prisoners  who  are  compelled 
to  suffer  close  contact  with  it  must  not  read  what  fol- 
lows. 

•  By  a  fortuitous,  though  distressing,  circumstance,  it  fell 
to  my  lot  to  learn  more  about  the  gallows  and  the  "tech- 
nique" of  hanging  a  man  than  occurs  ordinarily  with 
prisoners.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  probably  not  more  than 
twenty  prisoners,  exclusive  of  those  who  have  been  hanged, 
have  ever  seen  the  gallows  at  San  Quentin. 

Prisoners  are  not  permitted  in  the  execution  room,  nor 
are  they  permitted  to  go  to  that  floor  of  the  furniture 
factory.  Only  those  who  cut  down  the  dead  body  and 
lay  it  in  the  black  pine  box  are  allowed  to  enter  the  place. 


Donald  Lowrie  241 

But  several  years  after  I  entered  San  Quentm — at 
which  time  I  was  employed  as  history  and  statistical 
clerk  in  the  turnkey's  office — a  newly  elected  Sheriff  in 
one  of  the  counties  of  Nevada  found  himself  with  a  hang- 
ing on  his  hands.  A  man  had  been  sentenced  to  death, 
and  the  Sheriff  was  to  be  the  official  executioner.  The 
Sheriff  had  never  hanged  a  man  in  his  life. 

Not  knowing  how  to  proceed,  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
writing  to  the  Warden  at  San  Quentin  for  "pointers." 
The  letter  stated  that  he  had  a  man  to  hang  and  wanted 
to  know  how  to  do  it.  The  letter  was  sent  in  to  the  turn- 
key's office  by  the  Warden,  and  I  was  delegated  to  write 
the  desired  information. 

Now,  as  I  had  never  hanged  a  man  either — it  is  sur- 
prising how  many  of  us  have  never  hanged  a  man,  isn't 
it? — there  was  but  one  course  to  pursue.  That  was  to 
go  up  to  the  execution  room  and  learn  how  it  was  done. 
So  I  went  to  the  Captain  of  the  Yard  and  got  a  pass,  and 
the  entire  process  was  explained  to  me  by  the  trusty  in 
charge  of  the  death  chambers. 

I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  morbid  curiosity  as  I  drew 
near  the  place,  and  entering  the  room  my  eyes  were  in- 
stantly drawn  to  the  ghastly  murder  machine  before  me. 
I  saw  a  double  gallows,  painted  pale  blue.  It  fascinated 
me.  As  I  walked  toward  it  my  eyes  remained  staring, 
and  I  did  not  look  to  see  where  I  was  going. 

The  platform  was  supported  by  four  heavy  uprights, 
one  at  each  corner.  At  either  side  of  this  platform  were 
other  uprights,  and  across  the  top  extended  a  massive 
beam,  with  another  upright  at  the  middle  running  down  to 
the  platform  and  separating  the  two  "traps."  The  cross- 
beam was  notched  over  each  trap,  notched  for  the  rope, 
and  dangling  suggestively  from  each  notch  was  a  gaping 
noose,  the  huge  and  cruel  "hangman's  knot,"  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  coiled  snake.  At  the  rear  of  the 


My  Life  in  Prison 

platform  was  a  rather  broad  flight  of  steps,  and  back 
of  the  gallows  platform  was  a  little  booth,  extending 
clear  across,  but  closed  in  so  that  one  could  only  see 
into  'it  from  the  front  and  only  part  way  down  from  the 
top.  It  reminded  me  of  a  Punch  and  Judy  booth  more 
than  anything  else,  and  I  wondered  what  it  was  for. 

The  trusty  led  me  to  the  stairs  and  we  started  to  as- 
cend. 

"Count  em,"  he  suggested,  as  we  went  up.  I  did  so  and 
found  there  were  thirteen. 

"Was  that  done  purposely?"  I  asked,  without  thinking. 

"Naw,"  replied  the  trusty;  "it  just  chanced  that  they 
needed  thirteen  steps,  that's  all.  But  it  makes  a  good 
point  to  tell  visitors.  Of  course,  when  a  guy  goes  up  to  be 
topped  he  don't  count  steps.  The  chances  are  he  couldn't 
count  'em  if  he  tried.  But  here  we  are,  and  I'll  explain 
the  whole  thing  to  you,"  he  added,  as  we  reached  the  plat- 
form. 

"In  the  first  place,  when  a  guy  comes  in  to  be  stretched 
they  measure  him  in  the  Bertillon  room.  They  measure 
from  the  bottom  of  his  ear  to  the  top  of  his  head,  and 
then  they  deduct  that  from  his  height.  Say  a  man's 
five  feet  ten  inches  tall  and  he  measures  seven  inches  from 
the  base  of  his  ear  to  the  top  of  his  sky-piece.  You 
take  seven  inches  from  five  feet  ten  and  it  leaves  you  five 
feet  three.  That's  his  hangin'  height.  You  see,  they 
don't  hang  a  man's  head;  they  just  hang  him  from  the 
neck  down,  and  to  get  the  right  drop  they  have  to  know 
just  how  many  feet  and  inches  he  is  from  his  tootsie- 
wootsies  to  the  place  where  the  chicken  got  the  axe. 

"All  right;  we've  got  a  guy  whose  hangin'  height  is 
five  feet  three  inches.  Next  comes  the  question.  How 
old  is  he — are  his  bones  soft  or  brittle?  You  see,  an 
old  man's  bones  are  kind  of  glassy ;  his  neck  snaps  like  a 
match  when  the  old  knot  here  cracks  him  under  the  ear, 


Donald  Lowrie  243 

and  if  they  dropped  him  too  far,  why,  it  would  tear  his 
head  off.  The  whole  idea  is  to  drop  a  man  far  enough 
so's  to  be  sure  and  break  his  neck,  but  not  so  far  that 
the  shock  will  tear  his  head  off. 

"Suppose,  for  instance,  a  man  jumped  out  of  a  second 
or  third  story  window  with  a  rope  tied  around  his  neck. 
When  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  rope,  what  would  happen? 
You  don't  know?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  The  chances  are 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  that  he'd  hit  the  ground  in 
two  pieces  and  leave  the  rope  danglin'.  His  head  might 
not  get  there  as  quick  as  the  rest  of  him,  but  it  would 
sure  come  down  alone.  That's  what  they  got  to  be 
careful  of.  They  cut  one  guy's  head  off  here  once,  and 
it  was  awful.  The  place  looked  like  a  slaughter-house 
when  we  came  in  to  get  the  stiff,  and  everybody  in  the 
room  was  sick." 

Keen  to  the  value  of  dramatic  effect,  the  trusty  slowly 
swept  his  arm  from  one  side  of  the  room  to  the  other, 
as  if  calling  my  eyes  to  see  the  horrible  picture  he  had 
described,  and  then  he  paused  a  few  moments  to  allow 
my  imagination  plenty  of  time. 

"So,  you  see,  they  have  to  be  mighty  careful  how 
far  they  drop  a  guy.  First  I'll  explain  how  they  decide 
on  the  drop.  We'll  suppose  a  man  is  five  feet  ten  inches, 
as  I  said,  and  his  hangin'  height  is  five  feet  three.  He 
weighs  one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  and  is  thirty  years 
old.  The  hangman  comes  up  the  day  before  the  bumpin* 
off  is  to  take  place  and  has  a  long  talk  with  his  meat. 
But  instead  of  bein'  interested  in  what  the  man  has  to 
say  the  hangman  is  observin'  his  neck  to  see  if  it  is  thick 
or  thin,  tough  or  soft,  or  if  he  has  any  deformity.  If 
the  man  has  an  ordinary  neck,  the  drop  should  be  about 
five  feet  eight  inches  for  a  man  of  his  height  and  age  and 
build.  All  right.  The  hangman  comes  in  here  and  se- 
lects one  of  these  ropes  that  has  been  stretched  for  a  year. 


244  My  Life  in  Prison 

You  see  that  row  of  ropes  over  there  with  the  little  tags 
tied  on  'em  and  the  big  weights  at  the  end?" 

I  looked  in  the  direction  indicated  and  nodded. 

"Well,  some  of  them  ropes  have  been  stretchin'  for  a 
year.  It's  a  special  made  rope,  seven-eighths  of  an  inch 
thick,  and  hard  as  a  rock.  They  never  use  the  same  piece 
of  rope  twice.  He  takes  this  rope  and  makes  the  hang- 
man's knot  and  the  noose  in  one  end.  Then  he  takes  this 
little  round  block  and  puts  it  in  the  noose  and  pulls  it 
up  tight.  You'll  notice  this  round  block  is  only  two 
inches  in  diameter.  Well,  that  is  supposed  to  be  the 
size  of  a  man's  neck  when  he's  hangin'.  His  neck  stretches 
after  its  broke,  and  the  rope  sinks  in  so  that  there  is 
only  two  inches  of  fleesh  in  the  noose.  After  he's  put 
the  block  in  the  noose  the  hangman  throws  the  other  end 
of  the  rope  up  over  the  crossbeam,  and  I  climb  up  there 
and  hold  it. 

"Now,  before  I  go  any  further  I  want  you  to  look  at 
these  scales  here  on  the  posts." 

The  trusty  pointed  to  the  three  uprights  that  sup- 
ported the  crossbeam  of  the  gallows.  I  saw  that  the 
outer  face  of  each  post  was  divided  into  feet  and  inches, 
beginning  at  the  floor. 

"We've  decided  to  drop  this  feller  five  feet  eight  inches. 
Well,  here's  five  feet  three  inches  from  the  floor,  and  we 
tie  a  string  across  to  the  other  post  at  that  height.  Nat- 
urally, when  this  string  is  tied  it  will  be  five  feet  three 
inches  from  the  floor  of  the  trap.  Then — oh,  I  forgot 
something. 

"After  the  hangman  has  put  the  little  round  block  in 
the  noose  he  lays  the  rope  on  the  floor  and  measures  up 
it,  startin'  from  the  bottom  of  the  noose  until  he  gets  five 
feet  eight  inches.  He  ties  a  piece  of  white  string  around 
the  rope  at  that  place.  Then  I  climb  up  on  the  crossbeam 
and  draw  the  rope  up  till  this  piece  of  string  is  even 


Donald  Lowrie  245 

with  the  cord  that  is  tied  across  the  scaffold  five  feet 
three  inches  from  the  trap,  and  when  they're  even  I  tie  the 
rope  to  the  crossbeam.  Do  you  get  the  drift?  The  string 
tied  across  the  scaffold  is  the  man's  hangin'  height,  and 
the  rope  is  tied  to  the  crossbeam  so  that  it  drops  exactly 
five  feet  eight  inches  below  this  hangin'  height.  Have 
you  got  that  clear?" 

I  replied  that  I  had,  but  I  was  marvelling  that  he 
should  have  explained  it  all  with  so  much  unconcern  and 
indifference.  He  might  have  been  describing  the  proper 
way  for  killing  a  steer,  so  far  as  any  feeling  was  con- 
cerned. Also  he  seemed  to  be  proud  of  his  knowledge 
and  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  show  it  off. 

"Now,  if  you'll  come  in  here  I'll  show  you  this  box," 
he  continued,  opening  a  little  door  at  the  side  of  the 
Punch  and  Judy  affair  at  the  back  of  the  gallows  plat- 
form and  leading  the  way  in. 

Inside  the  box  was  a  board  shelf  built  against  the  front 
wall,  and  about  a  foot  above  this  shelf  was  the  opening, 
extending  clear  across  the  front,  from  which  the  scaf- 
fold and  the  room  beyond  could  be  seen.  By  reaching 
out  through  this  opening  I  could  almost  touch  the  rope 
dangling  from  the  crossbeam. 

"You  see  these  three  little  holes  here,"  my  informant 
went  on.  "Well,  there's  a  string  comes  up  through  each 
of  them.  The  first  string  runs  across  the  board  and  is 
tied  to  this  first  eyelet.  The  second  string  goes  to  this 
second  eyelet  here  in  the  middle,  and  the  third  string 
goes  to  the  eyelet  at  the  other  end.  Two  of  these  strings 
are  dummies,  and  the  other  does  the  trick. 

"When  they  are  all  ready  to  top  a  guy  three  guards 
come  into  this  box  and  stand  in  front  of  these  three 
strings.  Each  one  has  a  sharp  knife  and  holds  the  point 
down  on  the  board  on  the  outside  of  his  string.  When 
the  signal  is  given  they  all  draw  the  knives  across  the 


246  My  Life  In  Prison 

strings  together.  See !  Look  at  the  marks  on  the  board 
where  the  knives  have  cut!" 

I  looked  and  saw  the  scars,  black  with  dirt,  where  there 
had  been  repeated  knife  cuts  across  the  pine  board. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  there's  been  that  many 
hangings?"  I  asked,  increduously. 

"Oh,  no.  We  often  set  the  trap  and  go  through  the 
whole  performance  for  big  visitors.  That's  what  makes 
all  those  cuts. 

"When  the  strings  are  cut  a  weight  is  released,  and 
falls,  and  when  this  weight  gets  to  the  end  of  the  rope  it 
is  tied  to  the  bolts  under  the  trap  are  jerked  back  like 
a  flash,  and  the  trap  flies  back  with  a  powerful  spring  and 
catches  on  a  clamp  that  keeps  it  from  swingin'  on  its 
hinges — somethin'  like  the  top  of  a  match  box  when  you 
press  the  button.  It's  just  exactly  the  same  as  if  the 
floor  was  suddenly  pulled  out  from  under  you  right  now, 
only  the  man  with  the  rope  around  his  neck  drops  5  feet 
8  inches  and  then  stops.  Everything  stops  for  him  then, 
and  no  chance  for  appeal.  It's  off. 

"Of  course,  the  three  gaurds  don't  know,  which  string 
does  the  trick.  The  only  man  who  knows  that  is  the  man 
who  sets  them,  and  he  never  tells.  But  all  three  strings 
have  to  be  cut,  just  the  same.  If  one  man  failed  to  cut 
his  it  would  hold  the  key  string  from  releasin'  the  weight, 
so,  practically,  they  all  do  the  job." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  to  flick  some  dust  from  the 
board  with  his  cap. 

"As  long  as  you're  here  I  might  as  well  describe  just 
how  a  guy  is  topped,  if  you  want  to  hear  it." 

I  was  half  sick  at  the  way  he  had  described  the  murder 
process,  but  determined  to  learn  all  I  could,  and  told 
him  to  continue. 

"Well,  when  all  is  ready  and  the  witnesses  are  here 
they  step  into  his  cage  in  the  other  room  and  tie  his 


Donald  Lowrie  247 

hands  behind  him.  Then  they  lead  him  in  here  and  up 
the  thirteen  steps,  with  the  priests  praying  at  his  sides, 
and  stand  him  on  the  trap.  In  case  he  weakens  in  the 
knees  and  can't  stand  up  they  have  a  board  to  strap 
from  his  heels  to  his  shoulders — but  they've  never  had 
to  use  that  yet.  As  soon  as  he  gets  on  the  trap  one 
man  buckles  a  strap  around  his  legs  just  below  the  knees,; 
and  another  pulls  the  blackcap  over  his  head.  Then  the 
hangman  drops  the  noose  over  the  blackcap  and  draws  it 
up  tight  around  his  neck,  holdin'  his  fist  against  the  knot 
to  keep  it  from  slippin.'  As  soon  as  all  this  is  done  the 
hangman  raises  his  other  hand,  and  that's  the  signal. 

"When  the  guys  in  the  box  here  see  that  hand  go  up 
they  cut  the  strings.  The  hangman  gives  a  kind  of  push 
against  the  knot  just  as  the  trap  is  sprung.  The  man 
falls  through  the  little  hole  like  a  flash  and  there  is  a 
kind  of  crunching  crack  that  turns  your  stomach  inside 
out  if  you're  squeamish.  That  crunch  is  the  whole  trick. 

"You  see,  the  big  knot  acts  just  like  a  sledge-hammer. 
It  hits  the  feller  under  the  right  ear  just  like  a  club, 
breaking  his  neck  like  a  pipestem.  His  head  flops  over 
and  falls  on  his  shoulder  or  down  on  his  chest,  and  the 
knot  takes  the  place  where  his  head  ought  to  be.  Of 
course  a  feller  never  knows  anything  after  that  knot 
hits  him.  He  just  hangs  there  swingin'  until  his  heart 
stops  beatin'  and  the  croakers  announce  that  he  has 
kicked  in. 

"They  never  waste  any  time  on  the  job.  Sometimes 
it  is  only  a  minute  from  the  time  they  start  tying  a  fel- 
ler's hands  in  the  next  room  till  he's  through  the  trap 
and  danglin'  like  a  rag,  and  out  of  his  misery." 

"And  he  doesn't  suffer;  he  doesn't  strangle?"  I  asked. 

"No,  not  a  bit,"  was  the  reply.  "The  instant  the  trap 
is  sprung  it's  -curtains;  he's  as  dead  as  he  ever  will  be, 
so  far  as  feelin'  is  concerned." 


248  My  Life  in  Prison 

"But  he  must  have  one  supreme  moment,  one  awful 
instant,  that  cannot  be  described  in  words,"  I  insisted. 

The  trusty  looked  at  me  speculatively  before  replying. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  If  it  wasn't  for  the 
days  of  waitin*  and  watchin'  the  hour  draw  near,  I 
wouldn't  want  any  quicker  way  to  bump  off,  myself.  The 
trouble  is,  a  man  dies  a  million  times  before  he  sets  foot 
on  the  trap.  I  don't  believe  in  topping  a  guy." 

"And  what  do  you  believe?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I'd  let  the  guy  think  he  was  goin'  to  be  bumped 
off,  let  him  die  the  million  times  in  his  cell,  and  then  com- 
mute his  sentence  at  the  very  last  moment,  just  as  they 
were  putting  the  necktie  around  his  neck.  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  guy  killin'  anyone  after  being  commuted  from 
the  rope  at  the  last  moment?  The  only  drawback  is  that 
the  hangman  wouldn't  get  his  twenty-five  bucks,  and  of 
course  that  would  never  do." 

As  I  passed  out  I  did  a  lot  of  thinking,  especially  about 
the  three  guards  cutting  the  strings.  Why  should  they 
have  three  guards,  and  why  should  they  make  a  secret 
of  the  key-string?  And  then  I  knew.  It  was  the  effort 
to  escape  responsibility,  an  acknowledgement  that  they 
were  engaged  in  a  dastardly  and  inhuman  act.  But  why 
should  they  feel  that  way?  If  hanging  a  man  is  right, 
why  should  everybody  concerned  want  to  point  to  the 
other  fellow  and  say,  "He  did  it"? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

I  recall  a  story  that  was  once  told  me  of  two  men  who 
were  shipwrecked.  After  days  of  hardship  in  an  open 
boat  they  landed  on  what  appeared  to  be  an  uninhabited 
coast.  But  on  reaching  the  crest  of  the  first  hill  they 
found  themselves  confronted  with  a  gallows.  Whereupon 
they  clasped  hands  fervently  and  exclaimed:  "Thank 
God  we've  landed  in  a  civilized  country." 

There  is  a  gallows  at  San  Quentin,  as  I  have  told,  and 
my  duties  in  the  clothing  room  brought  me  into  close  con- 
tact with  a  number  of  the  men  who  were  hanged  on  it. 
I  suppose  I  should  have  felt  thankful  to  God,  but  I  didn't. 
To  me  a  gallows  stands  as  an  indictment  of  Christianity, 
and  prisons  as  monuments  to  2,000  years  of  Christian 
blindness. 

They  are  now  busily  engaged  in  building  new  cell 
houses  at  San  Quentin,  designed  to  hold  1,600  prisoners. 
It  is  called  a  model  of  "modern"  prison  construction.  I 
shall  have  a  good  deal  to  say  about  these  new  buildings 
later,  but  the  thought  that  such  construction  should  be 
in  progress  in  the  Year  of  Our  tord  Nineteen  Hundred 
and  Eleven  certainly  strikes  a  discordant  chord. 

Of  course,  there  are  many  who  hold  that  prisons  are 
necessary,  and  that  men  who  commit  crime — and  are 
convicted — should  be  "punished."  They  give  no  thought 
to  the  causes  that  may  have  led  up  to  the  crime,  nor  do 
they  feel  that  the  offender  is  worthy  of  any  effort  to  make 

249 


250  'My  Life  in  Prison 

him  better,  save  by  punishing  him,  and  thus,  perhaps, 
filling  him  with  the  fear  of  similar  punishment  if  he  com- 
mits crime  again.  These  are  chiefly  the  self-righteous, 
those  who  have  never  felt  the  pinch  of  want  nor  the  spirit 
of  toleration  and  mercy  that  comes  only  by  having  suf- 
fered or  by  having  come  close  to  the  suffering  of  others. 
There  had  been  executions  while  I  worked  in  the  jute 
mill,  but  aside  from  the  general  gloom  and  silence  ob- 
servable in  most  of  the  prisoners  who  worked  there,  we 
knew  very  little  about  it.  All  we  knew  was  that  some 
man  was  taken  up  to  some  place  in  the  old  furniture 
factory  and  put  to  death  at  half  past  ten. 

On  such  days  when  we  came  out  of  the  jute  mill  to 
go  to  dinner  at  noon  we  all  spoke  in  subdued  tones,  and 
as  we  passed  across  the  lower  yard  to  the  mess  hall  we 
all  looked  up  at  the  four  whitewashed  windows  of  the 
execution  room  and  imagined  what  had  occurred  there 
a  short  hour  and  a  half  before. 

But  after  I  went  to  work  at  the  clothing  room  the  hor- 
ror of  the  thing  struck  me  poignantly.  When  I  had  re- 
ceived Wardrip  the  day  he  <came  in  I  had  felt  that  I  was 
a  party  to  the  process  that  was  taking  him  closer  to 
the  gallows,  but  now  I  found  that  I  was  to  take  an  active 
part — I  was  to  He  a  deus  ex  machina  in  earnest. 

With  the  exception  of  Saturday  and  Sunday,  and  holi- 
days, the  condemned  men  are  permitted  to  walk  on  the 
asphaltum  before  their  cells  from  12  o'clock  to  2  eacK 
day.  On  Tuesday,  half  an  hour  before  their  exercise 
time  ends,  they  are  escorted  to  the  barber  shop  to  be 
shaved.  It  is  when  they  are  on  the  way  back  from  the 
barber  shop  that  the  move  is  made  indicating  that  the 
dread  noose  is  near.  If  a  man  is  scheduled  to  hang  on 
Friday  he  is  cut  out  of  the  line  as  it  comes  back  from 
'he  barber  shop  on  Tuesday  afternoon  and  guided  into 
the  clothing  room. 


Donald  Lowrle  251 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  this  done. 
The  string  of  condemned  men  were  walking  toward  me 
on  the  way  from  the  barber  shop  to  their  cells,  and  just 
as  they  were  passing  the  door  of  the  clothing  room  two 
guards  stepped  up  and  tapped  two  of  them  on  the  shoul- 
der. No  word  was  spoken,  yet  these  two  men  knew  what 
it  meant. 

I  can  still  see  their  faces  as  they  turned  and  came 
into  the  room.  I  had  only  had  a  few  minutes'  warning 
myself.  The  turnkey  had  stepped  into  the  clothing  room 
while  the  condemned  men  were  in  the  barber  shop  and  in- 
formed me  that  two  of  them  were  to  "swing"  on  Friday, 
and  that  they  would  be  brought  in  to  be  dressed  when 
they  came  back.  He  remained  there  with  me  to  receive 
them. 

As  they  stepped  into  the  room,  with  the  guards  close 
behind,  I  observed  their  faces.  One  was  a  mere  boy,  not 
yet  19  years  old;  the  other  a  man  of  about  24.  They 
were  both  Mexicans  and  had  killed  an  old  man  and  then 
burned  his  body,  after  taking  his  money.  Both  tried  to 
appear  brave.  The  older  man  succeeded  in  keeping  a 
stolid  countenance,  but  the  face  of  the  boy  was  a  fearful 
thing  to  see.  Bravado  and  fear,  courage  and  cowardice, 
defiance  and  terror,  hope  and  despair,  chased  each  other 
from  his  heart  to  his  eyes  and  back  again  in  rapid  suc- 
cession as  he  was  ordered  to  take  off  his  clothes. 

When  both  men  were  stripped  they  were  herded  into 
the  back  room,  where  the  bathtub  was  located,  and  com- 
pelled to  get  into  the  tub  together.  While  they  were 
bathing  I  selected  new  clothing,  under  the  direction  and 
wa^hfulness  of  the  turnkey,  and  he  proceeded  to  cut 
off  the  buttons  and  buckles.  This  was  to  prevent  the 
condemned  from  getting  anything — even  a  button — by 
which  he  might  wound  himself. 

Presently  the  two  men  came  back  and  dressed  them- 


My  Life  In  Prison 

teelves  in  the  new  stripes.  Then,  under  heavy  guard,  "tHey 
were  escorted  across  the  yard — the  "Garden  of  Death" — 
and  up  the  stairs  of  the  old  furniture  factory — the  stairs 
run  up  the  outside  of  the  building — and  into  the  death 
chamber. 

I  never  saw  either  of  them  alive  again. 

Wednesday  and  Thursday  dragged  their  leadened 
minutes  by.  Late  on  Thursday  night,  when  all  was  still, 
the  guards  came  to  the  clothing  room  and  got  the  two 
black  suits  and  the  shirts,  but  no  collars.  On  Friday 
morning,  when  the  two  condemned  men  arose  from  their 
troubled  sleep,  they  found  their  suits  of  stripes  gone, 
and  in  their  stead  the  suits  of  black,  and  white  shirts. 
But  there  were  no  collars — collars  would  interfere  with 
the  rope. 

Having  seen  these  two  men,  having  talked  with  them, 
I  could  not  keep  my  mind  from  their  horrible  plight.  How 
must  they  feel?  How  must  they  count  each  moment  of 
that  fateful  morning? 

The  sun  was  bright,  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  slcy. 
Life  was  sweet  and  desirable,  and  they  were  full  of  red 
blood.  Yet  before  the  sun  reached  the  zenith  they  would 
be  two  clods  of  lifeless  clay.  I  believe  I  suffered  every 
pang  that  boy  suffered,  for  my  thoughts  persisted  in  re- 
maining fixed  on  him.  I  saw  his  young  face  and  his 
terror-stricken  eyes  again  and  again. 

At  10  o'clock  the  front  gate  was  opened  to  let  in  the 
"crowd."  Immediately  the  "witnesses"  began  to  pour 
in.  Many  of  them  were  smoking  cigars  and  most  of  them 
were  laughing  as  they  hurried  across  the  yard  for  fear 
they  might  be  late,  or  that  they  might  not  get  in  the 
first  row  before  the  scaffold. 

I  counted  them  as  they  entered,  but  I  have  forgotten 
Ihe  exact  number.  I  am  positive  it  was  more  than  400. 


Donald  Lowrie  253 

By  twos  and  threes  they  scudded  across  the  open  space 
and  disappeared  in  the  human  murder  place. 

Over  in  the  cell  buildings  the  doors  were  locked,  and 
white  faces  peeped  from  the  wickets.  An  hour  before 
they  hang  a  man  all  the  prisoners  working  in  the  upper 
yard  and  shops  are  locked  in  their  cells.  But  there  is  no 
way  to  close  the  wickets. 

An  awful  silence  had  fallen  over  the  prison.  Even  the 
birds  in  the  pine  trees  before  the  clothing  room  had 
ceased  to  chirp.  The  very  air  seemed  to  shudder.  The 
several  men  who  worked  in  the  office  building,  and  were 
exempt  from  the  lock-up  rule,  had  assembled  in  the  cloth- 
ing room,  without  concerted  understanding,  but  no  one 
spoke.  Ever  and  anon  we  glanced  furtively  at  the  clock, 
but  our  eyes  scarcely  saw  the  hands,  for  the  scaffold  and 
two  doomed  creatures  intervened. 

"Happy  Jack,"  a  lawyer  serving  ten  years,  tried  to 
whistle  but  broke  down  miserably,  and  mumbled  some- 
thing under  his  breath.  The  silence  was  emphasized  when 
he  ceased.  It  seemed  as  though  every  man  were  listening 
for  the  thud  of  the  traps. 

And  this  was  to  be  a  double  execution.  Two  men  were 
to  be  dropped  into  eternity  at  the  same  time.  They  were 
to  stand  side  by  side  as  the  nooses  were  adjusted.  It 
was  horrible.  It  is  impossible  to  put  it  into  words, 

There  had  not  been  a  "double"  execution  at  San  Quen- 
tin  for  years,  though  on  one  occasion  three  men  had  been 
hanged  on  the  same  day.  Two  had  "swung  off"  together, 
while  the  third  listened  tensely  in  the  nearby  chamber.  I 
have  often  thought  that  this  third  man  must  have  suf- 
fered the  tortures  of  the  damned. 

The  execution  was  to  be  at  10:30.  At  10:29  I  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  started  to  add  a  long  column  of 
figures.  But  instead  of  figures  I  saw  ropes  and  coffins 
dancing  before  my  eyes.  And  then  "Happy  Jack"  came 


254  My  Life  in  Prison 

to  the  rescue.  He  told  a  funny  story — something  about; 
a  darky  captured  by  the  Union  troops  during  the  Civil 
War,  who,  when  asked  why  he  did  not  join  the  Union 
forces  and  help  fight  for  his  own  cause,  said : 

"Well,  colonel,  I've  seen  two  dogs  fightin'  for  a  bone, 
but  I'se  nebber  seed  the  bone  fight !" 

We  all  laughed  uproariously,  almost  hysterically.  And 
yet  the  story  had  been  unintentionally  a  propos.  While 
we  were  still  laughing  the  "witnesses"  began  to  come  back. 
They  passed  across  the  garden  briskly.  I  expected  to 
see  serious,- even  tragic  faces.  Instead  I  saw  smiles  and 
heard  heartless  comment.  I  could  not  understand  it, 
save  on  the  theory  that  they  were  trying  to  conceal  that 
they  really  felt.  I  believe  that  was  the  .case,  for  at  all 
the  executions  that  occurred  during  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed the  "witnesses"  always  came  back  laughing.  More 
than  400  had  witnessed  this  execution,  and  a  large  num- 
ber had  arrived  too  late  to  get  in.  It  had  been  made  a 
kind  of  festive  or  gala  occasion. 

Under  the  present  Warden  at  San  Quentin  the  number 
of  witnesses  is  limited  to  twelve,  which  is  the  number  re- 
quired by  law.  But  the  Warden  is  besieged  with  requests 
to  see  each  execution  that  occurs.  A  condemned  man  has 
the  "privilege"  of  having  five  friends  or  relatives  witness 
his  execution  if  he  so  desires.  Only  two  men  have  availed 
themselves  of  this  "privilege"  to  my  knowledge. 

At  10:55  all  the  "witnesses"  had  passed  out,  and  the 
silence  that  had  prevailed  a  few  minutes  before,  while  the 
State  had  been  engaged  in  murder,  was  broken  by  grat- 
ing keys  and  clanging  doors  as  the  men  poured  out  of 
their  little  "separate  hells"  and  returned  to  their  unre- 
munerative  work. 

Presently  I  saw  the  trusty  from  the  execution  room 
coming  across  the  yard  with  an  armful  of  striped  cloth- 


Donald  Lowrie  £55 

ing.  He  entered  the  clothing  room  and  threw  the  gar- 
ments on  the  table. 

"Two  men  discharged,"  he  commented  grimly,  as  he 
wiped  his  forehead  with  a  red  handkerchief. 

Instantly  I  knew  it  was  the  clothing  I  had  furnished 
to  the  two  condemned  men  three  days  before,  and  I  drew 
back  so  that  it  might  not  touch  me.  I  turned  into  the 
next  room — the  turnkey's  office — and  asked  what  I  should 
do  with  it.  The  turnkey  had  just  returned  from  the  ex- 
ecution room,  where  he  had  adjusted  one  of  the  black 
caps — shutting  out  the  light  of  God's  sun  forever  from 
a  human  face.  I  looked  at  his  hands,  expecting  to  see 
them  covered  with  blood.  He  was  chewing  a  fresh  cigar 
and  seemed  quite  cool. 

"Have  buckles  sewed  on  and  put  'em  in  stock,"  he 
said,  tersely.  "They're  practically  new.  They've  only 
been  worn  three  days." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  this  clothing  would 
be  put  back  on  the  shelves.  That  meant  that  two  in- 
coming prisoners  would  be  garbed  in  it.  I  got  the  China- 
man who  helped  about  the  clothing  room  to  take  the 
things  to  the  prison  tailor  shop,  and  when  they  were  re- 
turned that  afternoon  they  went  back  onto  the  shelves, 
though  I  was  particular  to  mix  them  with  the  other  cloth- 
ing so  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  identify  the  pieces. 
I  wanted  to  dodge  knowing  to  what  particular  men  these 
garments  would  subsequently  be  given. 

And  then  a  horrifying  thought  came  upon  me  like  a 
stark,  staring  corpse.  Perhaps  the  clothes  I  had  received 
the  day  I  came  in  had  been  imbued  with  the  fearful  agony 
of  a  condemned  man's  last  hours.  I  hurried  to  the  rec- 
ords to  see  if  a  tall  man  had  been  hanged  at  any  time 
within  a  year  of  my  arrival,  and  breathed  easier  when 
I  found  that  there  had  not.  But  that  did  not  alter  the 
fact  that  two  men  were  doomed  to  wear  the  clothes  I  had 


S56  My  Life  in  Prison 

just  put  on  the  shelves.  It  seemed  criminal.  SucH  clotK- 
ing  should  be  burned. 

I  was  not  a  psychometric  crank,  but  the  thought  of 
dressing  a  new  prisoner  in  clothing  that  had  been  taken 
from  the  body  of  a  man  about  to  die  on  the  gallows 
seemed  heathenish.  There  was  something  unspeakably 
horrible  about  it.  You  smile!  It  is  "maudlin  sentiment?" 
Very  well.  How  would  YO,U  like  to  be  compelled  to  wear 
such  clothing?  How  would  you  like  to  have  your  son,  or 
brother,  or  father  compelled  to  wear  it? 

When  "maudlin  sentiment"  strikes  home  it  b'ecomes  in- 
tensely human. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  hanging  I  saw  a  ghastly  cortege 
coming  up  the  road  past  the  dungeon.  There  were  eight 
striped  figures  carrying  two  black  pine  boxes.  The  eight 
striped  figures  seemed  to  advance  blindly;  their  faces 
were  tragic ;  they  were  ashamed  of  the  light  of  day.  At 
the  corner  of  the  photograph  gallery  they  turned  and 
went  to  the  morgue. 

The  "bridge  of  sighs"  had  not  been  built  in  those  days, 
and  coffins  from  the  execution  room  had  to  be  flaunted 
in  the  eyes  of  the  prisoners  in  order  to  reach  the  morgue. 
I  gazed  at  the  horrible,  cheap  black  boxes  through  mad- 
dened eyes.  It  had  suddenly  seared  into  my  brain  that 
the  two  human  beings  whom  I  had  seen  alive  and  full  of 
health  three  days  before  were  stretched  in  those  boxes — 
two  corpses  whose  souls  had  been  sent  crashing  into 
eternity. 

I  cared  not  what  they  had  done.  It  made  no  differ- 
ence. Murder  had  been  committed  in  retaliation  for  mur- 
der. This  being  so,  why  should  not  the  murderers  of  the 
murderers  be  called  murderers?  I  felt  that  way.  So 
would  you  if  you  had  looked  into  a  Mexican  boy's  brown 
eyes  and  seen  the  awful  hopelesness,  the  terrible  fear,  the 
mute  cry  for  mercy  that  I  had  seen.  It  was  murder  to 


Donald  Lowrie  857 

me — murder  and  nothing  else.  No  good  example  had  been 
set.  No  deterrent  influence  had  been  created.  Society 
had  merely  revenged  itself  by  committing  murder.  That's 
what  the  cave  men  used  to  do 

The  visitors,  the  "witnesses,"  had  laughed  as  they 
scudded  away  from  the  terrible  thing,  but  all  that  day 
I  watched  in  vain  to  see  a  prisoner  smile. 

And  afterward  I  learned  that  a  "witness"  who  had  suc- 
cumbed to  active  nausea  when  the  traps  were  sprung  was 
obliged  to  take  a  party  of  "friends"  to  the  saloon  at  San 
Quentin  Point  and  "treat"  as  a  bribe  to  keep  his  name 
out  of  the  newspapers. 

Yet  there  are  many  who  wonder  why  a  prisoner  goes 
wrong  the  second  time. 

At  the  last  session  of  the  Legislature  a  measure  had 
been  introduced  for  the  abolition  of  capital  punishment. 
It  had  received  the  support  of  one  House,  but  was  de- 
feated in  the  other.  Yet  for  several  weeks  it  looked  very 
much  as  if  the  bill  would  pass,  and  the  condemned  men 
at  San  Quentin  spent  tortured  days  gaing  through  the 
narrow  slits  in  their  cell  doors,  watching  the  front  gate 
for  the  Warden. 

Every  few  days  the  Warden  would  come  inside  the 
prison  while  the  condemned  men  were  exercising  and  talk 
with  them  individually.  He  did  not  talk  with  them  as 
Warden  to  prisoner,  but  as  man  to  man,  and  there  has 
yet  to  be  a  poor  wretch  executed  under  his  administration 
who  does  not  feel  that  Warden  Hoyle  is  his  friend. 

And  it  was  not  only  while  the  condemned  were  exercis- 
ing that  the  Warden  came  in  to  chat  with  them.  I  have 
seen  him  stand  on  the  tier  before  a  cell  in  death  row  and 
talk  for  hours  to  the  eyes  that  peered  out  at  him,  es- 
pecially at  night,  when  all  is  still  and  the  condemned  are 
alone  with  their  thoughts — face  to  face  with  the  grim 
spectre  of  approaching  death. 


258  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  observed  Warden  Hoyle  closely  during  the  days  pre- 
ceding and  following  the  executions  at  which  he  has  been 
compelled  to  officiate.  I  do  not  believe  it  possible  for 
a  man  to  suffer  more  keenly  than  he  has  suffered.  Not 
that  he  lets  it  be  seen — to  the  average  person  there  is 
no  noticeable  change  in  him  at  such  times — but  to  me — 
well,  I  don't  lay  claim  to  any  degree  of  occult  power — 
still  I  know  what  he  goes  through. 

And  so  when  the  bill  was  introduced  for  the  abolition 
of  capital  punishment  Warden  Hoyle  told  the  condemned 
men  about  it  and  kept  them  informed  as  to  its  progress. 
At  each  step  toward  its  realization  he  went  inside  and 
carried  the  good  news.  But  when  the  measure  was  de- 
feated in  the  Upper  House  he  did  not  go  in  to  tell  them. 
He  couldn't. 

The  great  majority  of  the  men  who  suffer  the  death 
penalty  do  not  suffer  it  because  of  particularly  atrocious 
or  aggravated  crimes,  but  because  they  are  poor  and  are 
not  "defended"  in  the  way  that  money  defends.  To  prove 
this  statement  one  has  but  to  investigate  the  trials  for 
murder  in  any  county.  An  examination  of  the  evidence 
will  disclose  that  deliberate  and  premeditated  murder  is 
frequently  visited  by  life  imprisonment,  or  even  a  term 
of  years  for  the  defendant,  while  unpremeditated,  even 
unintentional,  killings  are  often  paid  for  by  exacting  the 
life  of  the  offender.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  how  the  defence 
is  presented  and  conducted.  This  being  so,  it  being  pos- 
sible for  the  man  of  greater  culpability  to  escape,  while 
the  man  of  lesser  culpability  is  hanged,  capital  punish- 
ment, as  a  just  measure,  is  farcical.  On  this  ground 
alone  it  should  be  abolished. 

Again,  chief  executives  are  sometimes  inveigled  into 
extending  clemency  in  the  least  deserving  of  cases,  while 
men  comparatively,  or  wholly,  guiltless  of  premeditation 
are  allowed  to  die  on  the  gallows.  Two  cases  of  the 


Donald  Lowrie  £59 

former  kind  have  been  on  my  mind  for  a  long  time.  I 
knew  these  beneficiaries  of  a  former  Governor's  clem- 
ency very  well,  indeed,  and  liked  them  both,  but  that 
shall  not  deter  me  from  telling  the  facts,  omitting  names 
and  places,  of  course. 

John  and  Csesar  C ,  brothers,  rented  a  ranch.  They 

worked  hard  and  raised  a  good  crop  on  it  and  then  went 
and  paid  the  rent  to  the  old  man  who  owned  the  place, 
getting  his  receipt.  That  night  they  returned  to  the  old 
man's  hut,  killed  him  and  stole  the  money  they  had  paid 
him. 

When  the  murder  and  robbery  was  discovered  they 
promptly  produced  the  receipt  to  show  that  they  owed 
nothing  for  the  rent  of  the  ranch.  They  not  only  pro- 
duced the  receipt;  they  flaunted  it — flaunted  it  to  such 
an  extent  that  suspicion  fell  upon  them. 

Evidence  was  gathered  against  them,  and  through  the 
testimony  of  a  Mexican  ranch  hand  they  were  convicted 
of  murder  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged.  Influence  was 
brought  to  bear  on  the  Governor,  and  after  hearing  the 
case  he  agreed  to  commute  the  sentence  of  one  of  the 
brothers  to  life  imprisonment.  It  is  claimed  that  this 
man  rejected  clemency  for  himself  unless  it  was  also  ex- 
tended to  his  brother,  and  the  Governor  finally  commuted 
both  sentences  to  life  imprisonment.  One  of  the  broth- 
ers subsequently  went  insane,  and  is  now  confined  in  the 
criminal  ward  of  one  of  the  State  hospitals.  The  other 
brother  served  about  fourteen  years  and  was  paroled. 
Remember,  this  was  a  premeditated  murder,  committed 
for  the  purpose  of  robbery. 

Here  is  the  other  case : 

Frank  D insisted  that  his  young  wife  should  be- 
come an  inmate  of  a  house  of  ill-fame.  Protesting  against 
the  horror,  she  yielded,  but  was  unable  to  stand  it.  She 
escaped,  made  her  way  to  one  of  the  interior  towns  and 


260  My  Life  In  Prison 

went  to  work  in  a  factory.  He  succeeded  in  locating  her, 
went  to  the  factory,  called  the  girl  outside  and  ordered 
her  to  return  with  him.  She  refused,  whereupon  he  drew 
a  revolver  and  shot  her.  She  tried  to  run,  and  he  fired 
again. 

Then,  while  she  lay  screaming  for  mercy,  he  stood  over 
her  poor,  bleeding  body  and  fired  three  more  shots  into 
her.  And  even  as  she  gasped  out  her  young  life  at  his 
feet  he  said,  "I'm  glad  I  killed  the ." 

The  Sheriff  had  a  hard  time  to  prevent  a  lynching. 

D was  tried,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

On  the  merits  of  the  case  it  looked  as  though  nothing 
could  prevent  his  execution.  Powerful  influence  was 
brought  to  bear  on  the  Governor,  however,  and  word 
was  passed  to  D that  he  must  feign  insanity. 

The  Governor  appointed  a  commission  to  examine  the 
man  as  to  his  mental  condition,  and  this  commission  found 
him  to  be  insane.  On  the  strength  of  their  report  the 
Governor  commuted  the  sentence  of  death  to  life  impris- 
onment. 

I  saw  D in  the  jute  mill  yard  the  very  day  he  had 

been  commuted  from  "the  rope."  He  was  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  prisoners,  to  whom  he  was  imparting  the  in- 
formation that  he  was  no  more  insane  than  they  were, 
and  that  he  had  simply  stuttered  and  looked  foolish,  ac- 
cording to  instructions. 

For  nine  years  I  saw  D nearly  every  day.  I  have 

never  seen  or  known  a  saner  man  in  my  life.  At  the  time 
he  entered  the  prison  not  an  officer  but  felt  that  if  ever 
a  man  deserved  the  death  penalty  he  did.  But  with  the 
passing  of  time  and  the  manifestation  of  good  character- 
istics D became  popular,  so  popular  that  those  who 

had  at  first  condemned  him  did  not  hesitate  to  express 
the  hope  that  he  would  some  day  "beat  it." 

At  the  end  of  eight  years  D applied  for  parole. 


Donald  Lowrie  261 

The  same  influence  that  had  saved  him  from  the  rope 
was  brought  to  bear,  and  he  was  paroled,  to  leave  the 
prison  when  he  had  served  nine  years'  "solid  time."  Ex- 
actly nine  years  after  he  entered  San  Quentin  D , 

who  had  committed  a  deliberate  and  monstrous  murder, 
was  freed  on  parole.  Yet  I  have  known  many  men  who 
have  served  longer  than  that  for  taking  a  few  dollars. 

Why  have  I  told  these  two  stories,  both  of  which  are 
absolutely  true?  Certainly  not  to  injure  the  men  in- 
volved. They  are  both  making  good,  and  long  acquain- 
tance with  them  won  my  friendship,  along  with  that  of 
many  others.  I  have  told  their  stories  merely  to  em- 
phasize the  inequalities  and  glaring  injustices  that  exist 
under  the  present  system. 

I  could  go  on  and  tell  the  circumstances  of  other  cases 
where  men  have  been  hanged  for  offences  lacking  entirely 
in  premeditation  or  brutality,  but  enough  has  been  told 
to  prove  that  so-called  justice  is  a  very  uncertain  quality. 

Sometimes  murders  occur  that  seem  to  demand  the 
life  of  the  offender.  Death  seems  to  be  the  only  ade- 
quate punishment.  I  can  readily  conceive  of  acts  which, 
were  I  to  commit  them,  I  would  surely  be  compelled  to 
admit  that  I  had  forfeited  the  right  to  live.  So  can  you. 
But  the  infliction  of  death  does  not  accomplish  any  good ; 
it  is  not  in  accord  with  the  nature  of  man's  soul;  it  is  a 
yielding  to  his  very  lowest  instincts. 

What  shall  be  done  with  men  who  commit  awful  crimes? 
I  say  let  the  jury  decide  the  penalty,  and  when  the  jury 
feels  satisfied  that  the  circumstances  warrant  it,  sentence 
the  offender  to  imprisonment  for  life  in  a  separate  and 
remote  prison  maintained  solely  for  such  cases,  and  with- 
out^ recourse.  When  the  jury  feels  that  there  are  miti- 
gating or  extenuating  circumstances,  a  different  penalty 
can  be  imposed.  Of  course,  under  this  system  the  same 
injustices  that  obtain  to-day  would  still  exist — poor  men 


My  Life  In  Prison 

would  get  the  worst  of  it — but  it  is  infinitely  preferable 
that  a  poor  man  should  suffer  life  imprisonment,  even 
without  recourse,  than  that  he  should  be  murdered  by  the 
State  because  he  is  poor  and  friendless. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

About  six  years  ago  a  boy  named  H B was 

dropped  through  the  little  square  hole  without  any  bot- 
tom that  is  always  kept  in  readiness  at  San  Quentin. 
Just  before  the  trap  was  sprung  a  little  bird  alighted  on 
one  of  the  window  ledges  and  chirped  saucily.  But  when 
the  boy's  body  shot  down  and  his  neck  broke  with  a  hor- 
rible crunch  the  little  bird  flew  away  in  affright.  A 
group  of  pale-faced  men  stood  and  watched  the  boy's 
body — the  inert  head  in  the  black  bag  hanging  down  over 
his  heart,  as  if  listening  to  hear  himself  die — while  it 
swayed  slowly  back  and  forth.  The  hanging  body  was 
only  18  years  old.  How  old  the  soul  which  was  being 
strangled  out  of  it  was,  no  one  knows. 

And  while  this  18-year-old  human  body  swung  back 
and  forth — like  a  pendulum  of  civilization — another  boy, 
a  boy  with  a  squint  in  his  eyes,  also  18  years  old,  was 
hopping  about  a  loom  in  the  prison  jute  mill,  engaged  in 
weaving  jute  for  making  bags  destined  to  hold  wheat  in 
transportation  to  other  human  bodies. 

This  cross-eyed  boy  was  the  partner  of  the  boy  whose 
body  was  swinging  back  and  forth  in  the  execution  room 
above.  Both  boys  had  been  guilty  of  the  same  crime, 
but  only  one  had  been  sentenced  to  hang.  The  cross- 
eyed boy  had  "turned  State's  evidence."  For  doing  that 
he  had  "escaped"  with  his  life ;  that  is,  he  had  "escaped" 
into  the  penitentiary  to  serve  "it  all." 

263 


264  My  Life  in  Prison 

These  two  boys  had  been  at  the  reform  school  together. 
Afterward  they  killed  an  old  man  for  his  money.  The 
crime  was  a  horrible  one,  almost  as  horrible  a  crime  as 
the  hanging  of  the  boy.  The  boy  who  was  hanged  had 
been  pronounced  a  "bad  one"  by  nearly  everybody  who 
came  in  contact  with  him. 

While  at  San  Quentin  awaiting  execution  he  had  made 
a  dagger  from  the  handle  of  the  slop  bucket  in  his  cell 
and  tried  to  stab  the  guard.  That  was  what  made  him 
"bad."  Of  course,  a  boy  waiting  to  be  hanged  should 
be  meek  and  lowly,  he  should  be  like  a  lamb  going  to 
the  slaughter.  It  should  make  no  difference  that  he 
doesn't  understand,  that  he  fails  to  realize  his  outlawry, 
that  he  feels  defiant  and  inclined  to  regard  the  human 
beings  engaged  in  the  preparations  for  his  murder  as 
no  better  than  he  is. 

Neither  of  these  boys  had  a  home  training;  neither  of 
them  was  entirely  responsible  for  nonconformity  to  the 
laws  of  the  society  in  which  they  found  themselves.  To 
them  there  was  no  law  higher  than  that  of  the  stomach, 
and  they  had  hunted  and  killed  in  response  to  their  law. 
For  doing  so  they  had  been  snatched  out  of  the  world  and 
confined  in  cages.  Then  one  of  them  had  been  sentenced 
to  "hang  by  the  neck  until  dead,"  while  the  other,  in 
reward  for  putting  the  rope  about  his  partner's  neck, 
was  let  off  with  punishment  for  life. 

While  at  San  Quentin  I  had  ample  opportunity  for  oE- 
serving  men  who  turn  State's  evidence.  Invariably  such 
men  are  shunned  and  execrated  by  their  fellow  prison- 
ers, as  they  should  be.  Of  course,  I  am  aware  that  the 
words  "as  they  should  be"  will  startle,  perhaps  antago- 
nize, many  persons.  But  why  does  a  prisoner  turn 
State's  evidence?  Because  he  is  interested  in  the  welfare 
of  society  and  actuated  by  a  desire  to  see  society's  laws 
upheld?  Not  once  in  a  thousand  times.  Almost  invari- 


Donald  Lowrie  265 

ably  the  man  or  woman  who  turns  State's  evidence  does 
so  under  the  promise  or  in  the  hope  of  leniency.  The 
man  who  turns  State's  evidence  is  on  a  parity  with  the 
man  who  will  trample  upon  women  and  children  in  order 
to  be  the  first  one  in  a  lifeboat,  or  who  would  throw  a 
child  to  wolves  in  order  to  save  his  own  carcass.  He  is 
the  nearest  thing  to  a  criminal  that  I  know  of.  By 
"criminal"  I  mean  one  who  will,  under  any  circumstances, 
and  at  any  sacrifice  to  others,  act  on  the  fallacy  that 
self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature.  To  me,  soul- 
preservation,  not  self-preservation,  is  the  first  law — the 
law  of  all  laws. 

In  cases  where  men  turn  State's  evidence  with  abso- 
lutely no  thought  of  immunity  from  suffering  the  conse- 
quences which  are  to  be  expected  in  return  for  their  own 
culpability,  but  solely  and  honestly  because  they  fell  it  is 
right  and  unselfish  to  do  so,  no  adverse  criticism  can 
be  made.  But  these  cases  are  so  few  as  to  be  almost 
negligible.  Almost  invariably  men  who  turm  State's  evi- 
dence become  "stool  pigeons"  while  in  prison,  and  mani- 
fest in  the  same  way  for  the  police  after  they  get  out. 
They  are  despised  alike  by  those  whom  they  serve  and 
by  those  upon  whom  they  prey.  As  a  general  rule  judges 
are  inclined  to  extend  leniency  to  those  who  turn  State's 
evidence,  but  some  judges  do  not.  I  recall  a  very  inter- 
esting case  in  point. 

A  man  whom  I  will  call  Smith  (he  is  still  in  prison  and 
I  have  not  the  right  to  use  his  name)  served  a  term  at 
Folsom.  While  there  he  learned  the  fact  that  ten  or 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  was  carried  across  a  compara- 
tively deserted  stretch  of  country  each  month  by  two 
men  in  a  buggy  to  pay  off  the  employees  of  a  large  quar- 
ry. He  and  another  man  who  was  released  from  Folsom 
at  practically  the  same  time  determined  to  get  this 
money. 


266  My  Life  in  Prison 

But  while  they  were  perfecting  their  plans  the  other 
man  committed  a  burglary  and  was  caught  and  lodged 
in  jail.  A  few  days  later  the  community  was  startled 
with  the  news  that  two  masked  men  had  held  up  two  men 
in  a  buggy  and  taken  ten  thousand  dollars  from  them. 
Although  immediate  and  diligent  search  was  instituted, 
no  clew  of  the  robbers  could  be  secured. 

The  man  in  jail  naturally  inferred  that  the  crime  had 
been  committed  by  Smith  and  an  assistant,  and  he  de- 
termined to  use  this  knowledge,  or  pseudo  knowledge,  in 
an  effort  to  free  himself.  So  he  sent  for  the  officers  and 
informed  them  he  would  tell  them  who  had  committed 
the  robbery  if  they  would  "do  the  right  thing  by  him." 
Of  course,  the  officers  were  eager  to  catch  the  robbers, 
and  promised  that  they  would  see  to  it  that  he  got  off. 

They  were  then  informed  that  Smith  was  the  man, 
and  that  he  could  be  found  in  a  certain  place.  The  of- 
ficers went  to  the  place  indicated,  where  Smith  lived,  and 
arrested  him.  He  denied  being  guilty.  No  trace  of  the 
stolen  money  was  found  in  his  possession,  and  it  has 
never  been  recovered.  But  Smith  was  taken  to  the  county 
where  the  crime  had  occurred  and  placed  on  trial. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  convict  him  but  for 
the  fact  that  a  girl  residing  in  a  ranchhouse  a  mile 
from  the  scene  of  the  robbery  testified  that  she  had  been 
looking  through  a  telescope  and  had  seen  the  two  men 
waiting  for  the  carriage,  and  before  they  put  on  their 
masks.  She  identified  Smith  as  one  of  these  men. 

The  men  who  had  been  robbed  testified  that  Smith's 
build  and  height  corresponded  with  that  of  one  of  the 
robbers.  Smith  was  convicted  and  sentenced  to  forty-five 
years'  imprisonment  at  San  Quentin.  To  this  day  he 
protests  that  he  is  innocent.  He  says  he  planned  to  com- 
mit the  robbery,  but  gave  it  up  after  his  partner  was 
arrested  and  lodged  in  jail  for  burglary.  He  also  ar- 


Donald  Lowrie  267 

gues  that  they  did  not  find  any  money  In  his  possession, 
and  that  they  failed  to  establish  that  he  had  spent  any 
unusual  amount  of  money  between  the  date  of  the  crime 
and  his  arrest. 

But  I  am  not  so  much  concerned  as  to  Smith's  guilt 
or  innocence  as  I  am  with  what  happened  to  the  man 
who  was  satisfied  to  send  him  to  forty-five  years'  im- 
prisonment in  order  to  escape  the  consequences  of  his  own 
crime.  It  was  a  matter  of  general  satisfaction  to  all 
the  prisoners  who  were  familiar  with  the  facts  of  the  case 
that  the  judge  who  sentenced  him  ignored  the  "service" 
he  had  rendered  the  State  and  gave  him  twenty  years  at 
Folsom. 

As  a  general  rule  prisoners  are  inclined  to  look  ask- 
ance upon  a  fellow  prisoner  who  claims  to  be  innocent  of 
the  offence  for  which  he  has  been  sentenced  to  the  peni- 
tentiary. Quite  often  such  claims  are  not  entitled  to  se- 
rious consideration,  but  there  are  some  innocent  prison- 
ers, and  I  can  conceive  of  no  greater  human  suffering 
than  that  of  a  man  who  has  been  sentenced  to  prison  for 
a  crime  which  he  did  not  commit,  who  finds  that  even 
his  fellow  prisoners — whom  he  expects  to  be  sympathetic 
and  credulous — are  inclined  to  doubt  his  word.  Person- 
ally, I  know  of  a  number  of  cases  where  I  have  been 
thoroughly  convinced  of  the  innocence  of  men  who  have 
been  convicted  and  sentenced  to  prison  on  the  strength 
of  their  criminal  records.  It  is  no  unusual  thing  for  the 
police  to  arrest  and  make  a  scapegoat  of  an*  ex- convict, 
especially  during  such  periods  as  are  known  as  "waves" 
or  "carnivals"  of  crime. 

During  such  times  the  police  feel  that  they  must  arrest 
and  convict  some  one  to  appease  public  clamor.  Only 
the  other  day  I  learned  of  an  instance  where  a  man  en- 
tirely innocent  of  crime  narrowly  escaped  going  to  the 
penitentiary. 


268  My  Life  in  Prison 

He  was  a  young  man,  and  a  stranger  in  San  Francis- 
co. The  day  before  his  arrest  he  threw  away  an  old 
notebook  which  he  had  been  carrying  in  his  pocket.  It 
chanced  that  he  threw  this  notebook  into  the  basement 
of  a  building  in  course  of  construction.  That  night 
someone  entered  this  basement,  broke  open  a  locker,  and 
stole  a  quantity  of  valuable  tools.  When  the  police  were 
notified  the  next  morning,  detectives  were  sent  to  the 
scene  and  the  first  clew  they  found  was  a  notebook  con- 
taining names  and  addresses.  Quite  naturally  they  con- 
cluded that  this  notebook  had  been  lost  by  the  thief,  and 
that  noon  they  arrested  the  man  who  had  thrown  the 
book  away.  The  detectives  did  not  acquaint  this  man 
with  the  nature  of  the  offence  of  which  he  was  suspected 
nor  of  the  evidence  they  had  against  him,  but  questioned 
him  closely,  especially  as  to  his  movements  on  the  previ- 
ous night.  He  accounted  for  himself  as  best  he  could, 
but  they  smiled  derisively,  and  that  afternoon  they  took 
him  to  the  scene  of  the  crime  in  the  hope  that  some  of 
the  workmen  might  be  able  to  identify  him  as  the  man 
whom  they  had  observed  loitering  in  the  vicinity  when 
they  had  locked  up  their  tools  the  night  before.  When 
the  accused  man  reached  the  place  he  was  worried  by  a 
sense  of  having  been  there  before — and  then  he  suddenly 
remembered  having  thrown  away  the  old  notebook.  As 
soon  as  this  occurred  to  him  he  told  the  detectives  about 
it.  At  first  they  took  it  as  a  clever  ruse  evolved  by 
the  prisoner  to  discover  if  they  had  the  book  and  to  head 
them  off,  but  his  earnestness  was  so  intense  and  the  truth 
of  his  statements  so  apparent  that  they  finally  listened 
to  him  and  eventually  let  him  go.  But  so  sure  as  the 
sun  shines,  had  he  had  a  criminal  record,  had  he  been  an 
ex-convict,  he  would  have  been  convicted  and  sentenced 
to  prison  for  burglary.  The  detectives  had  evidence 
enough  to  hang  an  ex-convict. 


Donald  Lowrie  269 

An  instance  within  my  own  experience,  which  can  be 
authenticated  by  the  officers  involved,  will  also  show  how 
an  innocent  man  may  be  convicted.  I  was  in  jail  at  the 
time,  and  was  thankful  that  I  was.  A  robbery  had  been 
committed,  a  man  about  45  years  of  age,  and  his  niece, 
aged  about  20,  had  been  held  up  and  robbed  at  the  point 
of  a  revolver  while  on  their  way  home  on  Sunday  night. 
The  following  Sunday  the  Sheriff  arrested  two  men  on 
suspicion  and  brought  them  to  jail.  He  telephoned  for 
the  man  and  the  girl  to  come  and  see  if  they  could 
identify  the  suspects.  When  they  arrived  seven  or  eight 
prisoners  were  called  out  and  lined  up  in  the  office.  The 
man  came  in  alone  and  the  Sheriff  told  him  that  he  had 
arrested  two  men  who,  he  had  reason  to  believe,  might 
be  the  ones  who  had  robbed  him. 

"Take  your  time,"  said  the  Sheriff,  "and  look  at  these 
men.  If  you  recognize  any  of  them  as  the  robbers,  point 
them  out." 

The  man  looked  from  face  to  face  several  times,  and 
then  turned  and  spoke  to  the  Sheriff. 

"The  man  on  the  end?"  said  the  Sheriff.  "You  think 
the  man  on  the  end  is  one  of. the  robbers?  Look  again. 
We  don't  want  any  mistake  on  this.  Take  a  good  look 
at  him,  and  make  sure." 

The  man  looked  again  and  then  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes,  Sheriff,  I'm  quite  sure  he  is  one  of  them." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Sheriff.  "Now  look  and  see  if 
you  can  pick  out  the  other." 

The  man  looked  us  over  once  more  and  shook  his  head. 

"That's  too  bad,"  remarked  the  Sheriff.  "Now  you 
step  into  that  side  room  a  moment  and  we'll  have  the 
young  lady  come  in." 

She  swept  the  line  with  a  timid  and  terrified  glance, 
and  quickly  dropped  her  eyes. 


270  My  Life  in  Prison 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  urged  the  Sheriff.  "Take  your 
time  and  see  if  you  recognize  any  of  them." 

She  looked  at  us  again  and  much  to  my  embarrass- 
ment, halted  her  glance  upon  me.  Eike  her  uncle,  she 
turned  and  spoke  to  the  Sheriff  in  a  low  voice. 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  the  Sheriff.  "Would  you  swear 
to  it  in  court?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  at  me  again — and  I 
looked  as  murderous  as  I  could — and  then  said  she  would. 
Whereupon  the  Sheriff  called  in  her  uncle  and  said : 

"Mr. ,  the  man  whom  you  have  identified  as  a  rob- 
ber is  my  chief  jailer,  who  was  on  duty  here  last  Sun- 
day night  at  the  time  you  were  robbed.  And  the  man 
whom  you  have  identified,"  he  continued,  addressing  the 
young  lady,  "was  also  on  duty  here  last  Sunday  night, 
only  in  a  different  way.  He  has  been  in  jail  for  some 
time." 

But — suppose  I  had  been  one  of  the  young  men  who 
had  been  arrested  on  suspicion?  The  Sheriff  is  still  in 
office,  and  I  have  always  felt  a  respect  for  him  because 
of  the  absolute  fairness  of  the  test  to  which  he  put  the 
witnesses.  Frequently,  when  a  man  is  arrested  on  sus- 
picion the  police  bring  him  out  to  face  the  injured  party 
or  parties  alone;  and  quite  frequently,  owing  to  the  at- 
titude of  certainty  that  they  have  the  right  man  which 
they  assume,  the  complainant  is  hypnotized  into  making 
an  identification.  And  then  having  made  an  identifica- 
tion, pseudo  or  real,  the  witness  is  afraid  to  withdraw  it. 
Still  other  police  officials  go  through  the  pretence  of 
standing  the  accused  in  line  with  other  men,  but  manage 
to  indicate  the  suspect  by  some  trick.  For  instance,  one 
police  inspector  used  to  stand  with  his  back  to  the  line, 
and,  facing  the  complainant,  would  point  his  thumb  over 
his  right  shoulder — point  directly  at  the  suspect,  and 
say: 


Donald  Lowrie  S7T 

"Don't  you  see  him  there — in  that  line — there?" 

To  avoid  being  pointed  out  in  this  way  men  have  been 
known  to  change  their  places  in  the  line  as  soon  as  the 
inspector's  back  was  turned. 

Another  trick  is  to  tell  the  complainant  or  witness 
how  the  suspect  is  dressed  so  that  upon  seeing  the  line 
of  men  the  accused  is  readily  picked  out.  Of  course,  this 
information  is  not  given  directly,  but  in  the  form  of  con- 
versation between  the  officers  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
witness  before  he  or  she  is  brought  before  the  line  of  men. 
To  "beat"  this  duplicity  on  the  part  of  the  police,  pris- 
oners resort  to  methods  of  their  own.  When  it  is  known 
that  an  identification  is  to  be  made  they  exchange  cloth- 
ing at  the  last  moment.  An  accused  man  who  wore  a 
blue  flannel  shirt  made  such  an  exchange  some  years  ago, 
and  the  man  who  wore  the  shirt  at  the  "identification" 
was  identified  as  the  offender.  Subsequently  the  real 
owner  of  the  shirt  was  identified,  but  at  his  trial  it  was 
adduced  that  the  original  identification  had  been  of  an- 
other man,  and  he  was  acquitted. 

The  most  unconscionable  case  that  ever  came  under 
my  personal  observation  of  an  innocent  person  being  sent 
to  prison  was  that  of  a  man  whose  name  eludes  me  at 
this  moment,  but  who  was  sentenced  to  San  Quentin  un- 
der commitment  for  50  years  on  a  conviction  for  rob- 
bery. A  physician  returning  to  his  apartments  one  night 
surprised  a  man  in  the  act  of  looting  the  place,  and  a 
tussle  ensued.  The  robber  managed  to  break  away,  how- 
ever, and  escaped,  but  the  physician  had  a  good  look  at 
him.  Shortly  afterwards  a  man  was  arrested  with  part 
of  the  stolen  property  in  his  possession.  The  physician 
was  sent  for,  and  identified  the  man  as  the  one  whom  he 
had  surprised  in  his  apartment.  This  man  protested 
vehemently  that  he  was  innocent,  but  when  it  was  learned 
that  he  was  an  ex-convict,  that  he  had  served  a  term 


My  Life  in  Prison 

at  San  Quentin  years  before,  the  last  vestige  of  doubt 
was  removed  from  the  minds  of  everyone.  He  was  tried 
and  convicted  and  sentenced  to  San  Quentin  for  fifty 
years.  When  this  sentence  was  pronounced  he  uttered 
a  cry  of  impotent  rage  and  threw  an  inkwell  at  the  judge. 
He  entered  San  Quentin  protesting  his  innocence — just 
as  many  other  men  have  done  before  him — but  no  one 
believed  him.  From  day  to  day  he  became  more  dejected 
and  morose  until  it  was  evident  that  he  was  losing  his 
mind,  and  he  was  assigned  to  "crazy  alley."  Some  months 
later  Seimsen  and  Dabner  were  arrested  for  murder  com- 
mitted for  the  purpose  of  robbery,  and  when  Seimsen 
learned  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him  to  escape,  he  con- 
fessed that  he  had  committed  the  crime  for  which  an  in- 
nocent man  had  been  sentenced  for  fifty  years.  At  first 
the  police  were  sceptical,  believing  that  Seimsen  merely 
wanted  to  get  the  other  man  out  of  prison,  but  when 
Seimsen  confronted  the  physician  and  recounted  details 
of  the  encounter  in  which  they  had  engaged,  details  that 
it  would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  for  him  to  know 
were  he  not  the  genuine  robber,  and  when  he  also  dis- 
closed the  whereabouts  of  the  rest  of  the  stolen  property, 
it  became  evident  that  he  was  telling  .the  truth.  As  soon 
as  the  police  were  convinced  that  such  was  the  case  they 
exerted  every  effort  for  the  innocent  man,  who  was  par- 
doned by  the  Governor  a  few  days  later.  But  unfortu- 
nately it  proved  to  be  a  case  where  the  pardon  came  too 
late.  The  victim  was  released  from  San  Quentin  with 
the  monotonous  $5  and  cheap  clothing,  but  was  arrested 
for  vagrancy  and  dementia  a  few  days  later.  He  was 
subsequently  adjudged  insane  and  committed  to  an  asy- 
lum. I  have  never  heard  whether  he  recovered  or  not. 

Another  case  just  as  terrible  in  many  respects  was  that' 
of  a  man  whom  I  will  designate  as  Charlie  Sparks.  Char- 
lie was  a  bright,  clean-looking  young  fellow  residing  in 


Donald  Lowrie 

one  of  the  small  towns  not  far  from  San  Francisco.  By 
inheritance,  I  believe,  he  had  a  few  thousand  dollars 
in  his  own  name,  and  when  he  evinced  an  interest  in  a 
girl  about  fifteen  years  old,  who  lived  in  the  same  town, 
her  mother  determined  that  it  should  be  a  "match."  An- 
other girl  caught  Charlie's  fancy,  however,  and  he  ceased 
his  attentions  to  the  first  girl.  One  night  he  received  an 
invitation  to  call  at  this  first  girl's  home,  and  never 
dreaming  of  the  tragedy  in  store  for  him,  he  went  there. 
The  mother  manoeuvred  until  she  got  the  young  couple 
into  the  parlor  where  there  were  no  lights  and  left  them 
there.  The  girl  made  advances,  and  Charlie,  being  young 
and  human,  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  rather 
violently.  As  soon  as  he  did  so  she  began  screaming. 
Before  he  realized  what  was  occurring  two  husky  men 
rushed  into  the  room,  tore  him  from  the  girl — who  had 
dragged  him  to  the  floor  and  was  clinging  to  him — and 
administered  an  unmerciful  beating.  Bruised  and  bleed- 
ing, he  was  dragged  off  to  jail,  charged  with  rape.  A 
few  days  later  he  was  approached  by  an  attorney  and 
urged  to  compromise.  If  he  would  pay  the  mother  of 
the  girl  $5,000  the  case  could  be  nolle  prosscd,  and  the 
girl  would  escape  the  humiliation  of  testifying  in  court. 

But  Charlie  was  not  only  innocent  but  very  much  in- 
censed, and  he  directed  the  legal  emissary  to  go  to  the 
place  where  ice  is  supposed  to  be  worth  several  million 
dollars  per  cubic  inch.  Several  overtures  were  made 
subsequent  to  this,  but  Charlie  would  not  listen.  He 
was  innocent  and  he'd  prove  it  in  court.  Being  innocent, 
he  surely  could  not  be  convicted. 

When  the  case  came  to  trial,  the  girl  gave  the  most 
damning  testimony,  and  a  physican  testified  that  he  had 
been  called  immediately  after  the  occurrence  and  that  the 
act  had  been  accomplished.  It  required  about  six  minutes 
for  the  jury  to  find  Charlie  guilty,  and  he  was  sentenced 


My  Life  In  Prison 

to  San  Quentin  for  twenty  years.  After  he  had  appealed 
to  a  higher  court,  and  lost,  he  came  to  prison.  The 
lawyers  had  got  all  his  money  and  his  fate  was  sealed — 
apparently. 

But  nine  years  afterwards,  during  which  time  Sparks 
became  a  prematurely  old  and  broken  man,  the  truth 
came  to  light.  The  girl  had  grown  up,  married,  and 
had  children,  when  suddenly,  of  her  own  volition,  she  con- 
fessed. The  occurrences  on  the  night  of  the  "crime" 
had  all  been  prearranged  by  her  mother.  The  two  hus- 
kies who  had  rushed  in  and  administered  the  beating  had 
been  in  waiting  outside,  prepared  to  get  busy  as  soon  as 
the  girl  screamed.  The  plan  had  been  either  to  force 
Charlie  into  a  marriage  with  his  "victim"  or  else  get  his 
money  in  compromise.  When  the  woman  made  this  con- 
fession, Charlie's  friends  had  her  make  an  affidavit,  and 
the  case  was  presented  to  the  Governor,  who  at  once  is- 
sued a  pardon.  Of  course,  the  question  arises,  "Why 
were  not  the  witnesses  tried  for  perjury  or  conspiracy?" 
Because  the  statute  of  limitations  rendered  them  exempt 
from  prosecution  after  three  years,  and  the  expose  oc- 
curred after  Charlie  had  been  in  prison  nine  years.  I  also 
hear  the  question,  "How  about  the  physician's  testimony? 
Did  he  commit  perjury  also?"  No,  he  didn't.  It  wasn't 
made  a  part  of  the  affidavit;  but  one  of  the  huskies, 
acting  in  accordance  with  the  programme,  accommodated 
himself  to  the  situation  so  that  the  physician  could  not 
report  otherwise  than  he  did. 

I  shall  never  forget  Charlie  Sparks'  face.  I  never  saw 
a  more  tragic  and  protesting  pair  of  gray  eyes  in  my 
life;  and  yet,  until  his  innocence  was  established,  I  was 
always  dubious  as  to  the  truth  of  his  claim  that  they 
had  him  "dead  wrong." 

Another  interesting  case  was  that  of  John  H and 

Ed.  C — = — .    They  were  ex-convicts  and  had  been  arrested 


Donald  Lowrie  275 

in  one  of  the  northern  counties  for  murder.  Although 
innocent,  the  evidence  was  strongly  against  them,  espe- 
cially as  they  would  not  account  for  their  whereabouts  on 
the  night  of  the  crime.  Finally  it  became  apparent  that 
they  could  not  possibly  escape  conviction,  and  in  order 
to  clear  themselves  of  the  capital  offence  they  were  com- 
pelled to  confess  to  a  burglary  which  they  had  committed 
in  a  town  some  miles  distant,  but  in  the  same  county, 
at  the  time  the  murder  occurred.  In  order  to  prove  that 
they  had  committed  the  burglary  they  were  forced  to  di- 
vulge the  hiding  place  of  the  loot,  and  upon  going  to  the 
place  indicated  the  officers  found  evidence  connecting  the 
men  with  a  score  of  burglaries.  All  these  charges  were 

preferred  against  them  and  they  pleaded  guilty.  C 

got  thirty-nine  years,  and  S got  twenty-seven  years. 

Both  men  grew  old  before  they  had  another  taste  of  lib- 
erty, and  C went  out  on  crutches,  hopelessly  affected 

with  locomotor  ataxia.  I  never  looked  at  these  two  men 
without  thinking  about  the  wages  of  sin. 

Another  interesting  case  is  that  of  John  Ward,  who 
is  serving  thirty  years  at  San  Quentin  for  robbery.  He 
has  been  there  eight  and  one-half  years,  and  I  believe  he 
is  innocent.  I  first  saw  him  when  I  worked  in  the  jute 
mill  some  years  ago,  but  at  that  time  I  did  not  know  his 
name.  He  was  a  quiet  and  industrious  man,  and  seldom 
laughed.  He  hasn't  learned  to  laugh  yet.  Probably  he 
will  never  learn  to  laugh.  Thirty  years  is  no  laughing 
matter. 

The  other  day  I  heard  a  man  talking  to  a  friend. 

"Everybody  should  keep  a  laughing  countenance  all 
the  time,"  he  said.  "If  everybody  would  be  light  and  gay 
and  laughing,  the  world  would  be  much  better  off.  The 
trouble  nowadays  is  that  people  go  around  with  long, 
tragic  faces,  and  we  all  feel  more  or  less  blue  as  a  re- 
sult." 


276  My  Life  in  Prison 

•      . 
.      The  speaker  was  stout  and  sleek.     He  looked  as  if  Ke 

had  never  known  a  want  in  his  life. 

His  friend  did  not  look  so  prosperous.  There  were 
deep  lines  in  his  face.  I  took  him  to  be  the  father  of 
a  large  family.  His  manner  bespoke  responsibility. 

"If  everyone  kept  a  smiling  countenance,"  he  replied, 
"how  would  we  ever  know  of  the  misery  of  others?" 

The  two  men  passed  beyond  hearing,  and  I  was  sorry. 
I  was  interested.  I  liked  the  reply  of  the  second  man. 

I  have  seen  innocent  men  serving  long  years  in  prison. 
I  have  seen  guilty  men  led  to  the  scaffold  to  have  their 
lives  snuffed  out.  The  other  day  I  went  into  one  of  the 
large  department  stores  to  make  a  purchase.  The  young 
girl  who  waited  on  me  was  worn  and  pale.  I  saw  other 
young  girls  standing  wearily  behind  the  bedecked  coun- 
ters. Some  of  them  stood  with  one  hip  lower  than  the 
other,  just  as  tired  horses  stand.  I  have  also  seen  tense- 
faced  waitresses,  who  walk  many  miles  every  day  on  the 
hard  floors,  carrying  food  and  soiled  dishes  back  and 
forth.  Yeterday  I  saw  a  little  newsboy  on  crutches.  To- 
!day  I  saw  an  old,  old  man  working  with  a  pick  and  shovel 
in  a  trench. 

And  yet  that  big,  fat,  well-fed  man  said  that  everyone 
'should  keep  a  smiling  countenance.  He  may  like  the 
smiling  faces,  but  the  sad  ones  with  the  haunted  eyes 
are  nearer  the  truth.  They  are  the  living  monuments  to 
man's  greed  and  heartlessness.  Were  it  not  for  them 
the  world  would,  indeed,  be  a  sorry  place  in  which  to 
live.  There  would  be  nothing  to  do  but  eat  and  sleep, 
and  any  human  being  who  is  satisfied  with  that  has  no 
business  being  alive.  It  is  the  ones  who  suffer,  the  stag- 
gering penny  populace,  the  people  of  deep  understand- 
ing and  rich  human  sympathy,  that  are  worth  while. 

Yesterday  I  looked  into  the  face  of  a  woman  whose  life 
is  devoted  to  humanity — did  she  have  a  gay  and  light- 


Donald  Lowrie  277 

hearted  countenance?  And  yet  her  face  was  beautiful. 
Her  eyes  were  soft  with  compassion  when  she  spoke  of  the 
children  who  are  wasting  their  young  lives  away  in  mon- 
ey-making factories. 

A  few  months  ago  I  looked  into  the  face  of  a  prison 
warden  who  has  learned  that  life  is  no  laughing  matter. 
Four  years  ago  he  had  a  gay  and  light-hearted  counte- 
nance. To-day  he  seldom  laughs.  Why?  Because  he 
has  seen  human  suffering.  And  yet,  though  he  doesn't 
laugh  so  often,  he  is  a  bigger  and  a  better  man  and  is 
doing  more  good  with  each  passing  day.  I  never  watched 
anything  in  my  life  with  greater  satisfaction  than  I  did 
the  waning  of  his  smile.  He  still  radiates  cheer  and  con- 
fidence, but  in  a  different  way — the  way  that  counts. 
He  still  laughs  sometimes,  but  the  laugh  is  subdued. 

I  repeat  that  John  Ward,  serving  thirty  years  for  rob- 
bery, seldom  laughs.  He  would  be  a  monster  if  he  did 
laugh.  The  world  is  better  because  he  doesn't  laugh. 

About  two  years  ago  I  prepared  John  Ward's  appli- 
cation to  the  Governor  for  a  pardon.  When  he  came  to 
me  and  asked  me  to  "get  up  his  papers"  I  had  no  idea 
that  he  was  innocent.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  two  or  three 
time  loser,  and  they  are  never  supposed  to  be  innocent. 
When  he  told  me  that  he  wanted  the  proposed  applica- 
tion based  on  a  claim  of  innocence  I  tried  to  dissuade  him. 
Experience  in  preparing  other  applications  had  convinced 
me  that  such  a  claim  was  prejudicial  and  would  surely 
militate  against  success.  But  John  wouldn't  listen. 

"What  good  would  it  do  me  to  claim  I'm  innocent  if 
I'm  not?"  he  asked.  "I'm  no  fool.  I  know  the  game.  I 
know  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  say  I'm  guilty  and 
throw  myself  on  mercy,  but  I  tell  you  I  can't  do  it.  I'm 
innocent,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  May  I  drop  dead 
right  here  if  I'm  not.  It  certainly  wouldn't  do  me  any, 
good  to  talk  this  way  to  you,  would  it?" 


278  My  Life  in  Prison 

So  the  application  was  prepared  on  the  ground  of  in- 
nocence. 

John  was  in  bed  when  he  was  arrested  at  7  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  charged  with  having  robbed  an  intoxicated 
man  in  an  alley  about  five  blocks  away.  The  robbery  had 
occurred  about  4:30  a.  m. 

The  officers  knew  that  John  was  an  ex-convict,  and 
he  had  been  seen  on  the  street  at  midnight.  They  searched 
his  room  and  his  person,  but  found  nothing  to  connect 
him  with  the  crime.  The  persons  living  in  the  house 
testified  that  he  had  come  in  about  12:30  and  gone  to 
bed. 

The  man  who  had  been  robbed  of  $22  while  drunk 
testified  that  John  Ward  was  one  of  the  men  who  robbed 
him.  John  testified  in  his  own  behalf,  but  on  cross-ex- 
amination the  questions  of  the  District  Attorney  were 
chiefly  in  relation  to  his  previous  convictions.  One  of  these 
convictions  was  for  carrying  whisky  to  a  man  in  jail,  for 
which  he  served  one  year  in  the  penitentiary.  The  other 
conviction  was  for  burglary  of  the  second  degree,  for 
which  he  served  three  years.  A  night  watchman  testified 
that  he  had  seen  the  complainant  drinking  in  a  restaur- 
ant with  four  or  five  other  men  at  3:40  in  the  morning, 
but  that  the  defendant  was  not  one  of  them.  John  was 
represented  by  attorneys  who  were  appointed  by  the 
court.  They  did  not  come  to  the  jail  to  see  him  until  the 
afternoon  preceding  the  day  which  had  been  set  for  his 
trial,  too  late  to  subpoena  witnesses  for  the  defence  who 
had  moved  to  a  different  part  of  the  county. 

John  asked  for  a  continuance  of  the  case  until  he 
should  have  time  to  reach  these  witnesses,  whose  testi- 
mony had  been  given  at  the  preliminary  examination  and 
which  was  very  much  in  his  favor.  No  transcript  had 
been  made  of  this  examination,  and  it  was  vital  that  he 
should  have  the  witnesses  for  his  trial  before  the  Superior 


Donald  Lowrie  879 

Court.  But  the  request  for  a  postponement  was  denied, 
and  the  trial  proceeded.  The  jury  found  him  guilty  of 
robbery,  and  he  was  sentenced  to  thirty  years. 

The  application  stating  these  facts  were  sent  to  the 
Judge  and  District  Attorney  of  the  county  whence  Ward 
had  been  committed.  This  was  in  accordance  with  the 
rules  governing  applications  for  pardon.  The  Judge  and 
District  Attorney  both  signed  the  statement,  but  added: 
"We  do  not  admit  any  of  the  above  stated  facts  to  be 
true." 

In  preparing  his  application  Ward  made  repeated  ef- 
forts to  get  a  transcript  of  the  evidence  on  file  in  the 
county  records,  but  was  unable  to  do  so.  He  contends 
that  this  evidence  is  substantially  the  same  as  the  state- 
ment he  prepared.  After  his  conviction  he  wanted  to  ap- 
peal to  a  higher  court,  but  he  was  without  funds  and 
helpless.  I  have  a  copy  of  his  application  before  me  as  I 
write.  It  is  a  very  convincing  document.  It  has  never 
reached  the  Governor.  After  it  was  prepared,  and  all 
the  requirements  fulfilled  in  accordance  with  regulations, 
it  was  given  to  the  Warden  with  the  request  that  it  be 
presented  to  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors  for 
their  recommendation.  That  was  nearly  two  years  ago, 
and  no  action  has  ever  been  taken.  Meanwhile  John 
Ward  has  been  doing  his  daily  work,  obeying  the  prison 
rules,  and  hoping.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  prisoners 
are  the  best  judges  of  their  own  kind.  I  have  never 
spoken  to  a  prisoner  about  John  Ward's  case  who  didn't 
say  that  he  believed  John  innocent;  also  that  he  would 
make  good  if  he  ever  got  out.  The  case  is  worthy  of 
serious  investigation,  and  John  is  worthy  of  a  chance. 
ij  Among  the  thousand  or  more  stories  of  men  whom  I 
met  and  with  whom  I  became  more  or  less  intimate  while 
in  prisoi?,  the  story  of  Tom  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting and  remarkable.  Tom  made  no  claim  of  inno- 


280  My  Life  In  Prison 

cence.  He  had  been  caught  almost  in  the  very  act  of 
committing  burglary.  But  what  transpired  while  he  was 
in  j  ail  awaiting  the  action  of  the  courts  is  certainly  worth 
telling,  and  serves  to  illustrate  how  a  prisoner  may  be 
subjected  to  the  rankest  kind  of  injustice. 

I  was  talking  with  Tom  in  the  lower  yard  one  after- 
noon and  asked  him  how  he  came  to  get  fourteen  years 
for  a  first  offence.  As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  this  is 
his  story  as  he  told*it  to  me: 

"I  was  pinched  for  burglary  for  breakin'  into  a  store 

at  in.  the  night  time.  They  had  me  dead  right, 

and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  plead  guilty  and  take  my 
medicine  and  get  started  on  my  sentence  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. But  they  only  hold  court  in  that  county  every 
three  months,  and  after  the  preliminary  I  had  to  wait 
in  jail  until  the  next  session  of  the  Superior  Court. 

"About  two  weeks  after  they  got  me  a  Deputy  Sheriff 
came  into  the  j  ail  one  day  and  got  to  chewing  the  rag  with 
me.  He  talked  about  a  lot  of  things  for  a  while,  and 
then  started  telling  me  about  a  post-office  robbery  that 
was  pulled  off  about  fifty  miles  from  where  I  was  pinched 
two  or  three  nights  before  they  got  me.  It  was  in  an- 
other county,  and  besides  a  post-office  comes  under  the 
United  States  Court  and  I  wondered  what  he  was  drivin' 
at.  Pretty  soon  he  started  hintin'  that  the  job  was  done 
just  like  the  one  they  had  on  me. 

"  'Of  course,  you  know  the  limit  for  getting  a  post- 
office  is  only  ten  years,'  he  said,  'and  the  charge  we've 
got  you  cinched  on  here  calls  for  fifteen,  if  the  judge 
wants  to  give  it  to  you.  If  I  was  you  I'd  cough  up  about 
kicking  in  the  P.  O.  and  take  your  chance  with  the  U.  S. 
people.  We're  willing  to  drop  our  case  to  accommodate 
them,  and  we'll  boost  to  get  you  off  with  a  light  jolt — 
we'll  get  it  cut  to  five  years.' 

"  'But  I  didn't  do  it,'  I  said.    'I  don't  know  anything 


Donald  Lowrie  281 

about  it.   I'm  up  against  enough  as  it  is  without  that.' 

"  'Oh,  very  well,'  he  shot  back  at  me.  'If  you  want 
fifteen  years,  why,  that's  your  business.  I'm  simply  put- 
ting you  wise  to  how  you  can  get  off  with  five.  I'm 
just  trying  to  do  you  a  favor.  You  better  think  it  over.* 

"With  that  he  blew  and  left  me  alone.  Naturally,  he 
had  me  guessing.  I  studied  the  thing  over,  but  I  couldn't 
imagine  what  his  game  was.  The  only  thing  I  could  see 
was  that  he  wanted  to  get  me  admit  kickin'  in  the  post- 
office  so's  he  could  make  a  rep  for  himself. 

"At  first  it  made  me  pretty  hostile,  but  the  more  I  got 
to  studying  over  it  the  more  it  bothered  me.  If  I  could 
be  sure  that  the  U.  S.  people  would  let  me  down  with  a 
five-spot  and  that  the  people  who  had  me  dead  to  rights 
on  the  job  that  I'd  really  done  would  dismiss  it,  why,  I'd 
be  a  sucker  not  to  grab  it.  But,  you  see,  it  might  be  a 
case  of  double-crossing.  They  might  be  working  me  for 
their  own  interests  and  then  soak  me  on  both  charges. 
Before  I  went  to  sleep  that  night  I  decided  I  wouldn't 
take  the  chance. 

"The  next  day  the  same  deputy  came  into  the  jail 
again  and  asked  me  if  I'd  thought  the  thing  over.  I  told 
him  I  had,  but  I  had  no  way  of  being  sure  that  he  was 
on  the  square,  and  then  I  asked  him  point  blank  what 
his  game  was. 

"He  looked  around  to  make  sure  there  was  nobody 
within  hearin,'  and  then  spoke  low. 

"  'Of  course,  I  ain't  makin'  this  proposition  to  you  for 
love,'  he  said,  'and  I'll  give  you  the  straight  goods.  It's 
just  as  I  told  you  yesterday — the  limit  for  a  post-office 
is  ten  years,  and  we  can  get  you  off  with  five.' 

"He  stopped  and  sized  me  up  close  for  a  minute,  and 
then  he  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

"  'I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,'  he  said,  taking  another  squint 
behind  him.  'There's  a  reward  of  $600  for  the  guy  that 


My  Life  in  Prison 

blew  that  post-office  pete,  and  the  dough  is  pie  for  us  if 
you'll  say  you  did  it;  savvy?  On  the  square,  we  can  get 
you  off  with  five,  and  I'll  see  that  you  get  a  cut  to  boot. 
What  do  you  say?' 

"All  that  night  I  hiked  up  and  down  my  cell  in  my 
bare  feet.  It  looked  like  a  pretty  good  proposition,  and 
if  he  had  been  any  other  man  I'd  probably  'a'  jumped 
at  it,  but  there  was  something  about  him  I  didn't  like — 
there  was  a  phony  note  in  his  bazoo  that  I  couldn't  get 
away  from.  And  then  I  didn't  know  anything  about  the 
law.  I  had  no  way  of  telling  for  sure  that  the  limif 
for  a  post-office  was  ten  years.  And  the  more  I  got  to 
thinking  about  my  own  case  the  more  I  thought  the  judge 
would  let  me  down  easy. 

"There  wasn't  anybody  sleeping  in  the  place  I  broke 
into,  and  it  was  the  first  time  I'd  ever  been  arrested, 
though  I  ain't  saying  I'd  been  an  angel.  Besides,  I  was 
going  to  plead  guilty  and  save  the  expense  of  a  trial,  and 
all  that.  The  most  they  ought  to  give  me  was  five  years, 
and  I  could  even  get  off  with  one  year  if  the  judge  wanted 
to  do  it.  I'd  put  up  a  good  talk  when  I  got  into  court, 
and  lots  of  things  ought  to  count  in  my  favor.  So  I  de- 
cided to  pass  the  proposition  up,  and  the  next  day  when 
the  deputy  came  in  and  gave  me  some  cigars  I  told  him 
there  was  nothing  doing — after  I  got  the  cigars. 

"I  thought  he'd  fly  off  the  handle,  but  he  didn't. 

"  'Oh,  all  right,'  he  said.  'If  you  want  to  be  a  sucker 
go  ahead.  But  let  me  put  you  wise  to  one  thing — the 
judge  in  this  county  is  a  cracker  jack,  and  he's  death  on 
burglars.  Not  only  that,  but  a  little  word  from  us  and 
you'll  get  the  whole  package.  I  don't  say  we'll  go  to 
him,  but  you  better  think  it  over  some  more.' 

"The  way  he  said  this  made  me  mad,  and  I  told  him  to 
go  to  blazes.  You  see,  I  thought  it  was  all  a  bluff  about 
the  judge  being  hard  and  their  going  to  him  with  a  knock 


Donald  Lowrie  283 

— just  a  bluff  to  make  me  come  through  on  the  post-office 
proposition.  He  went  away  puffed,  but  he  came  back  the 
next  day,  and  every  day  for  two  weeks,  and  he  brought 
me  cigars  every  time.  I  tried  to  turn  down  the  cigars, 
but  he  wouldn't  have  it,  and  pretended  to  be  quite  friend- 
ly. Every  once  in  a  while  he'd  say: 

"  *I  know  you're  not  going  to  be  a  sucker,  and  I'll 
make  it  an  even  hundred  for  you  that  you'll  get  the  day 
you  come  out.' 

"But  I'd  made  up  my  mind,  and  one  day  he  got  me  so 
sore  I  told  him  to  beat  it  and  not  come  back  or  I'd  knock 
his  head  off. 

"With  that  he  called  in  the  jailer  and  they  sloughed 
me  up  in  my  cell.  I'd  been  having  the  run  of  the  corri- 
dors up  to  that  time  and  getting  pretty  good  grub. 

"Well,  they  kept  me  sloughed  up  until  I  went  into 
court.     I  made  my  little  spiel  to  the  judge  and  asked 
for  mercy,  and  then  I  got  mine  for  a  fare-ye-well.    When 
he  said  fourteen  years  it  made  me  see  red,  and  I  watited 
to  fight.     All  I  got  that  fourteen  years  for  was  because 
there  was  a  reward  of  $600  that  I  wouldn't  put  into  that 
stiff's  pocket.    I'd  probably  got  off  with  five  or  six  years 
_  iy  for  that." 
^Tom  stopped  and  regarded  me  seriously. 

"What  would  you  'a'  done  if  it'd  been  you?"  he  asked. 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  had  it  to  do  over  again?" 
I  answered. 

"Why,  I'd  grab  at  it,"  he  instantly  replied.  "Wouldn't 
you?" 

"I  certainly  would,"  I  responded.  "The  chances  are 
he'd  have  seen  you  through  as  a  matter  of  self-protec- 
tion." 

"I  only  hope  I  never  meet  him  if  I  ever  get  out,"  said 
Tom. 

C. 

One  Sunday  several  months  after  I  had  been  assigned 


My  Life  In  Prison 

to  the  clothing  room  I  went  over  to  the  yard  to  hunt  up 
Smoky.  I  had  been  seeing  him  nearly  every  day  as  he 
passed  in  the  line  on  the  way  from  the  jute  mill,  but  he 
had  never  once  looked  toward  me.  I  had  been  promising 
myself  the  pleasure  of  going  over  to  the  yard  to  see  him 
each  Sunday,  but  something  had  always  occurred  to  pre- 
vent it. 

Somehow  I  sensed  that  he  had  ceased  to  regard  me 
with  the  same  spirit  of  fellowship  as  had  prevailed  while 
we  were  in  the  cell  together,  and  it  hurt  me  to  know  it. 
One  of  the  penalties  of  getting  a  "good  job"  at  San 
Quentin  is  that  one  forfeits  the  regard  of  certain  men. 
There  are  many  of  the  inmates  who  believe  that  no  pris- 
oner can  get  a  "job"  without  having  done  something  un- 
derhand to  secure  it ;  also  that  he  cannot  hold  such  a  j  ob 
without  being  a  stool-pigeon.  Not  all  the  prisoners  take 
this  view,  and  I  was  confident  Smoky  did  not.  Neverthe- 
less, I  felt  a  coldness  from  him,  even  though  we  had  not 
spoken  for  months.  That  is  another  peculiar  condition 
of  prison  life. 

One  may  be  confined  to  the  prison  inclosure  for  months, 
perhaps  for  years,  and  suddenly  see  some  prisoner  who  is 
a  total  stranger  and  yet  who  has  been  in  confinement 
there  all  the  time.  -* 

Worming  my  way  through  the  crowd,  I  finally  descried 
Smoky  and  nodded  to  him.  He  understood  and  broke 
away  from  the  group  of  listeners  who  were  always  gath- 
ering about  him.  We  walked  along  toward  the  shed 
where  the  band  had  already  started  on  its  Sunday  con- 
cert, and  some  of  the  men  were  dancing.  I  knew  the 
dance  sent  Smoky's  blood  coursing  toward  his  feet,  but 
he  made  no  move  to  join  in.  Instead,  he  led  me  to  an 
unoccupied  seat  where  we  sat  down.  He  had  not  uttered 
a  word  since  we  had  started  for  the  shed  and  I  wondered 
how  he  would  break  the  ice,  for  there  certainly  was  a 


Donald  Lowrie  285 

frigidity  in  his  manner.  For  several  minutes  we  remained 
silent,  ostensibly  watching  the  dancers,  but  in  reality  en- 
gaged in  a  telepathic  sparring  match.  I  knew  with- 
out being  told  that  he  was  very  much  piqued  about  some- 
thing, and  it  made  me  uncomfortable  and  nervous.  I  felt 
that  I  would  sacrifice  the  regard,  of  any  other  man  with- 
in the  four  walls  rather  than  that  of  Smoky.  My  mind 
went  racing  over  what  he  had  told  me  of  his  life  and  I 
took  a  furtive  glance  at  his  freckled  face.  I  remembered 
that  at  my  first  meeting  with  him  I  had  thought  him  un- 
prepossessing, even  ugly,  but  now  as  he  sat  there  gazing 
before  him,  a  sad,  faraway  look  in  his  eyes,  he  looked  ac- 
tually handsome.  How  often  a  plain  face  becomes  glori- 
fied when  we  have  learned  something  of  the  soul  which  it 
conceals,  and  how  often  a  face  that  is  unattractive  when 
eyes  meet  eyes  takes  on  force  and  character  when  seen  in 
profile.  It  was  a  combination  of  these  two  conditions 
that  suddenly  made  me  see  Smoky  as  a  new  creature. 

"Haven't  you  ever  heard  from  Rose,  Smoky?"  I  finally 
ventured,  taking  the  initiative. 

He  grunted  an  ungracious  negative.  I  realized  thai: 
I  had  blundered. 

"What's  the  matter,  anyway,  old  man?"  I  blurted. 
"You  seem  to  be  safe  a\,T-it  something.  What  is  it? 
Have  I  done  something  you  don't  savvy,  or  are  you 
worrying  about  something  I  don't  know  about  ?" 

"Well,"  he  replied,  turning  toward  me  with  a  hard  loolc 
in  his  eyes,  "the  whole  thing  is  that  I  don't  like  the  idea 
of  y'r  bein'  a  bon-ton.  I  don't  say  y'r  ain't  all  right,  I 
know  y'r  are,  but  since  y'r  got  that  job  at  th'  office  y'r 
ain't  noticed  me,  n'r  th'  other  guys  y'r  used  to  talk  with. 
Maybe  it's  just  as  y'r  say — y'r  ain't  had  time  t'come 
over  t'  th'  yard  an'  see  a  feller,  but  y'r  got  a  long  stretch 
ahead  of  y'r  yet,  an*  if  y'r  ain't  careful  y'r'll  get  a 
swelled  skypiece,  like  all  th'  rest  of  th'  guys  what  get 


S86  My  Life  in  Prison 

good  jobs,  an'  f'rget  all  about  us  common  ones  what  ain't 
got  no  ability,  'r  nothin'  but  muscle."  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  as  if  choosing  words,  and  then  went  on :  "Y'r  got 
a  good  many  years  ahead  of  y'r,  Bill,  an'  I  hate  t'think 
that  y'r  may  get  stuckup  an'  cut  ol'  friends.  I've  only 
got  two  months  an'  a  butt  left  now,  an'  it  already  hurts 
me  t'  think  of  going  out  an'  leavin'  some  of  these  poor, 
helpless  fellers  what  act  like  lost  sheep  behind.  I'd  rather 
like  t'  go  out  feelin'  that  y'r  the  friend  of  all  th'  fellers 
in  th'  yard,  an'  that  y'r'll  never  go  back  on  th'  gang.  I 
don't  mean  that  y'r  oughter  run  after  them,  'r  nothin' 
like  that,  but  always  stick  up  f'r  th'  under  dogs.  If 
ev'ry  feller  in  here  would  do  his  part  toward  helpin'  some 
othe*  feller,  and  if  ev'ry  guy  would  keep  from  snitchin' 
and  trying  to  get  ahead  at  th'  expense  of  someone  else  th' 
cons  could  make  this  place  a  whole  lot  better. 

"No — no!  I  ain't  accusin'  you  of  doing  anything  like 
that,"  he  interrupted  quickly  as  I  half  arose  and  started 
to  speak,  "I  know  y'r  all  right,  only,  as  a  favor  t'me, 
remember  this  little  talk,  an'  ev'ry  time  y'r  got  a  chance 
t'  do  some  guy  a  favor,  do  it.  A  man  over  there  where 
you  are  can  do  a  whole  lot  f'r  other  fellers  if  he's  a  mind 
to,  an'  I'd  like  t'  look  back  an'  remember  that  I  know 
a  square  guy  in  an  office  job.  ,,1've  done  a  lot  of  thinking 
lately,  and  I'm  going  out  t'do  th'  right  thing.  This  kind 
of  a  life  don't  pay  at  no  stage  of  th'  game.  I've  been 
drillin'  that  int'  all  th'  young  fellers  lately  th'  same  as 
Charlie  Thorn  and  Buck  English,  an'  ol'  Kelsey  an'  all 
th'  other  old  timers  are  doin'  ev'ry  chance  they  get.  It 
ain't  us  old  crooks,  it  ain't  us  'hardened  criminals,'  as 
they  calls  us,  that  steer  th'  young  fellers  wrong,  you  know 
that.  Why,  half  of  these  kids  that  blow  in  nowadays 
know  more  in  a  minute  about  th'  business  than  I  ever 
knew,  an'  more'n  I'd  ever  know,  even  if  I  was  goin'  back 
at  it.  It's  these  reform  schools  that  do  that.  Get  a 


Donald  Lowrie  287 

bunch  of  kids  together  an'  they'll  learn  more  about  th' 
crooked  game  in  a  week  than  they'd  get  in  ten  years  here. 
Kids  think  it's  smart  to  know  all  th'  ins  and  outs — but 
what's  th'  use  of  talkin'  t'you,  you  know  what  I  mean. 
You've  seen  it  y'self .  But  I  keep  tellin'  'em  it  don'jt  pay ; 
that  it's  a  sucker  game,  an'  that  we're  a  lot  of  mutts. 

"Have  y'r  ever  stopped  t'  think  what  a  losin'  game  it 
all  is?  Take  St.  Paul  Blackie's  case  f'r  example.  He 
got  pinched  prowlin'  a  shack  in  th'  dead  of  night.  They 
didn't  get  him  in  the  act,  but  afterwards.  What  hap- 
pened? In  th'  first  place  th'  owner  of  th'  house  lost  a 
measly  $17.  Then  when  they  tried  Blackie  th'  guy  that 
lost  the  $17  had  t'  come  to  court  as  a  witness,  an'  lost 
three  days'  work.  There  were  four  or  five  other  wit- 
nesses, an'  of  course  they  lost  their  time,  too.  It  cost  the 
county  over  $500,  an'  that's  puttin'  it  light,  f'r  the 
trial.  Then  Blackie  got  ten  years,  an'  lost  his  liberty. 
He  came  here  and  worked  in  th'  jute  mill  year  after  year, 
all  th'  time  losin'  the  pay  that  a  man  ought  t'  get  f'r  his 
work.  Yet  all  th'  time  he  was  losin'  this  pay  it  cost  the 
State  30  or  40  cents  a  day  t'  keep  him — that's  more'n  a 
hundreds  dollars  a  year  f'r  one  man,  an'  there's  close  t' 
2,000  here,  not  t'  mention  Folsom.  Not  only  this,  but 
Blackie  was  gettin'  older  all  th'  time,  an'  losin'  in  charac- 
ter every  day.  When  his  time  was  up  he  went  out  sore, 
with  his  mind  made  up  t'  get  even.  You  know  how  he 
got  even.  He  was  out  three  weeks  an'  then  got  fifteen 
years  at  Folsom  f'r  holdin'  a  man  up  and  getting  ten 
dollars  off  him.  An'  while  Blackie  was  doin'  his  ten-spot 
here  his  mother  went  t'  th'  poorhouse,  where  th'  State 
had  t'  t  ipport  her,  an'  she  died  there.  S'  y'r  see,  all  th' 
way  through,  from  start  t'  finish,  it  was  a  dead  loss  all 
around.  Th'  only  ones  that  gain  is  the  people  that  make 
a  livin'  on  th'  misery  of  others — th'  police,  an'  the  court 
guys,  an'  th'  guards  here.  Of  course,  lots  of  people  think 


288  My  Life  in  Prison 

that  society  gains  somethin'  by  sendin'  a  man  here  an' 
makin'  life  a  hell  f'r  him.  They  think  th'  example  keeps 
lots  of  others  from  breakin'  the  laws ;  but  I  don't.  Neither 
do  you.  What  I  can't  get  through  my  nut  is  why  two 
thousand  able-bodied  men  cost  the  State  $100  a  year 
apiece.  If  we  had  a  little  town  of  our  own  outside  we'd 
have  our  families  and  children,  an'  good  food  an'  decent 
clothes,  an'  theatres  an'  fire  department  and  everything 
else,  an'  we'd  all  be  comfortable,  an'  some  of  us  would 
have  money  in  th'  bank'  an'  we'd  send  our  kids  t'  school, 
an'  all  that.  By  workin'  ev'ry  day  we'd  support  five  'r 
six  thousand  people  besides  ourselves,  an'  ye4"  in  here, 
livin'  like  dogs  in  kennels,  an'  eatin'  th'  cheapest  grub 
they  can  get,  it  costs  th'  State  a  quarter  of  a  million  dol- 
lars a  year  t'  keep  us.  There's  somethin'  rotten  some- 
where. If  they'll  let  us  guys  work  an'  pay  us  f'r  it,  an' 
make  us  pay  f'r  what  we  got,  y'r'd  see  a  big  difference. 
Y'r  wouldn't  see  men  comin'  back,  an  y'r'd  see  lots  of 
'em  go  out  and  take  their  proper  place  in  th'  world. 
They'd  have  th'  work  habit  then,  because  they'd  know 
'that  work  brings  a  man  all  that  makes  life  worth  while. 

"T  tell  y'r  th'  time  has  got  t'  come  when  these  places 
'11  be  sensible.  This  ain't  no  mush,  it's  good  common 
bense.  My  life  is  gone  now,  I'm  vergin'  on  old  age,  but 
my  life  wouldn't  'abeen  wasted  if  they'd  had  th'  right  sys- 
'tem  th'  first  time  I  got  kicked  inter  this  dump.  Courts 
an'  jails  an'  prisons  are  necessary,  I  know  that.  I  know 
that  people  have  a  right  to  keep  what  belongs  t'  'em, 
an'  that  when  a  man  takes  a  life,  or  when  he  takes  what 
ain't  his  by  right  of  his  work,  he's  got  t'  be  cut,  out  of 
th'  herd  an'  put  over  th'  jumps,  but  when  they  ?fo  that 
why  don't  they  try  to  make  a  better  man  of  him  instead 
of  treatin'  him  like  a  brute?  All  these  people  th»  t  write 
about  how  to  run  prisons  and  how  to  treat  prisoners 
make  me  tired.  I  know  all  about  it,  I  been  through  it, 


Donald  Lowrie  289 

but  as  soon  as  one  of  us  guys  tried  to  say  anything  they 
all  give  us  th'  dog  eye;  they  think  we've  got  an  awful 
crust — we're  supposed  t'  be  different  from  other  people; 
we  ain't  supposed  t'  think. 

"Well,  ol'  man,"  Smoky  finished,  rising,  "I  didn't  in- 
tend to  say  all  this  when  I  started,  but  I've  said  it.  Keep 
y'r  eyes  open  an'  take  it  all  in,  an'  when  y'r  get  out  per- 
haps y'r  can  do  somethin.'  It's  got  t'  be  some  guy  like 
you,  that  can  write  letters  like  y'r  used  t'  write  f'r  th* 
kid,  what's  got  t'  do  it.  I'm  goin'  out  soon,  an'  I'm 
goin'  t'  take  th'  straight  an'  narrow  f'r  mine  from  now 
on,  but  let  me  tell  y'r  one  thing — it  ain't  because  I'm 
afraid,  it  ain't  because  they  done  anything  t'  make  me  feel 
this  way.  It's  because  I've  worked  it  all  out  myself.  I 
c'n  sum  th'  whole  thing  up  in  a  few  words,  an'  that's 
this :  I'm  goin'  t'  do  right  because  it  is  right,  an'  not  for 
any  other  reason. 

"An'  now  y'r  better  get  back  t'  y'r  work.  I  am  goin' 
t'  have  a  dance." 

I  sat  there  and  watched  Smoky  whirl  off  in  the  crowd, 
and  then  walked  slowly  back  to  the  clothing  room.  I 
have  never  forgotten  that  Sunday,  I  never  shall. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Working  at  the  clothing  room  I  had  an  excellent  op- 
portunity for  observing  incoming  prisoners  and  the  meth- 
ods employed  by  different  sheriffs  and  deputies  in  bring- 
ing them  to  the  penitentiary.  Of  course  when  a  man  is 
on  the  way  to  prison  for  a  long  term  of  years — perhaps 
for  life,  or  to  be  executed — he  is  liable  to  be  more  or  less 
desperate;  at  least  the  majority  are.  I  make  the  quali- 
fication because  I  have  known  prisoners  to  deliver  them- 
selves at  the  prison  without  escort.  Quite  recently  a 
man  on  the  way  to  San  Quentin  from  one  of  the  extreme 
southern  counties  got  separated  in  a  crowd  from  the 
deputy  who  had  him  in  charge.  Instead  of  escaping  he 
inquired  how  to  get  to  the  penitentiary  and  came  there 
alone.  As  he  did  not  have  his  commitment  the  Warden 
could  not  receive  him  as  a  prisoner,  but  permitted  him 
to  remain  on  the  prison  reservation  until  telephonic  com- 
munication was  established  with  the  lost  officer,  who  final- 
ly arrived  with  the  necessary  papers.  I  did  a  lot  of 
thinking  about  that  particular  case.  It  seemed  so  ab- 
solutely unnecessary  and  inhuman  to  dress  such  a  man  in 
stripes  and  crop  his  hair.  Of  course,  it  is  unnecessary, 
inhuman  and  degrading  in  all  cases,  but  I  have  never 
had  it  come  home  to  me  so  forcibly  as  it  did  in  this  in- 
stance. 

I  also  know  a  lifer  at  San  Quentin  who  had  a  similar 
experience.  He  was  being  brought  to  the  prison  from  a 

290 


Donald  Lowrie  291 

northern  county.  The  officer  who  had  him  in  charge 
did  not  handcuff  him,  but  put  him  on  his  honor.  At 
San  Francisco  they  had  a  few  drinks  together  and  got 
separated.  The  prisoner  searched  diligently  for  his  cus- 
todian, found  him  intoxicated,  took  him  to  a  hotel  to 
sober  up,  and  then  they  finished  the  journey  together. 
Several  years  later,  and  long  after  he  had  first  told  me 
these  circumstances,  I  asked  this  lifer  if  he  would  do  the 
same  thing  again.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  tempted  to 
prevaricate,  and  then  said: 

"No,  to  be  honest,  I  don't  think  I  would.  Many  a 
night  I've  lain  awake  and  kicked  myself  for  not  beating 
it  when  I  had  such  a  chance.  But  Bill  Suthers  trusted 
me,  and  at  that  time  I  wouldn't  throw  a  man  down." 

This  lifer  has  been  before  the  State  Board  of  Prison 
Directors  and  his  parole  has  been  authorized  to  take  ef- 
fect when  he  has  served  eleven  years.  He  need  not  have 
served  a  day  had  he  not  had  a  keen  sense  of  honor.  I 
saw  him  change  from  a  bright  and  rather  handsome  young 
man  to  a  prematurely  old  one.  His  face  is  now  haggard 
and  drawn.  He  has  lived  and  suffered  twenty  years  in 
the  ten  years  that  he  has  spent  behind  prison  walls  in 
a  striped  suit.  His  crime  was  more  accidental  than  in- 
tentional in  its  nature,  and  it  is  really  hard  to  see  what 
good  has  been  accomplished  by  keeping  him  in  prison. 
His  sense  of  honor  is  certainly  not  as  high  as  it  was  at 
the  start,  and  he  is  impaired  in  every  way.  But  he  has 
been  a  model  prisoner.  A  "model"  prisoner  is  one  who 
drops  normal  manifestation  and  becomes  a  mere  automa- 
ton— something  on  the  order  of  a  model  or  dummy  in 
a  clothing  store.  Under  the  present  system  that  is  what 
is  meant  by  the  term  "model  prisoner." 

But  not  all  men  on  the  way  to  prison  would  deliver 
themselves  at  the  gate.  I  have  seen  loose  cayenne  pepper 
taken  from  a  prisoner's  coat  pockets  when  searched  upon 


My  Life  in  Prison 

being  received.  He  had  secured  the  stuff  in  the  hope 
that  an  opportunity  might  occur  for  him  to  throw  it  into 
the  eyes  of  the  officer  having  him  in  charge  and  make  his 
escape.  Such  men  are  decidedly  dangerous,  and  it  is  the 
fact  that  there  are  such  men  that  makes  officers  take 
every  precaution  in  bringing  prisoners  to  the  peniten- 
tiary. These  precautionary  measures  have  resulted  in 
barbarities,  however,  and  as  a  consequence  nearly  all 
prisoners  en  route  are  treated  as  if  they  were  wild  beasts. 
It  has  resolved  itself  into  what  might  be  adopted  as  the 
slogan  of  transfer  officers:  Treat  every  prisoner  as  if 
he  was  the  most  desperate  criminal  that  ever  existed. 

There  are  two  southern  sheriffs  who  never  bring  a 
prisoner  to  the  State  prison  without  an  "Oregon  boot." 

An  "Oregon  boot"  consists  of  a  lead  collar  that  fits 
about  the  ankle.  It  weighs,  I  should  judge,  between 
twenty  and  thirty  pounds.  It  is  either  riveted  or  locked 
about  the  ankle  and  while  there  it  is  utterly  impossible 
for  a  man  to  run.  In  fact,  he  can  only  walk  by  dragging 
the  weighted  leg  behind  him.  But  even  this  barbarous 
and  shameful  thing  is  not  sufficient  for  some  officers.  I 
have  seen  a  mere  boy  come  through  the  gate  of  San  Quen- 
tin  not  only  wearing  an  "Oregon  boot,"  but  shackled  and 
handcuffed  also.  I  distinctly  remember  the  first  time  I 
saw  this.  As  the  deputy  came  up  the  walk  to  the  office 
we  all  thought  the  boy  at  his  side  was  being  brought  to 
the  penitentiary  to  be  hanged.  Imagine  our  surprise  and 
indignation  when  we  learned  his  sentence  was  one  year. 

Several  years  ago  an  officer  from  one  of  the  southern 
counties  was  nearly  mobbed  in  San  Francisco  for  having 
a  prisoner  manacled  and  weighted  in  this  manner.  He 
arrived  on  a  steamer  and  was  dragging  his  victim  along 
the  waterfront  to  catch  a  ferryboat.  A  mob  collected 
about  them  and  forced  him  to  remove  everything  from  the 
boy  save  the  handcuffs. 


Donald  Lowrie  293 

And  many  times  I  have  seen  lame  or  one-legged  prison- 
ers brought  in  hand-cuffed.  Imagine  a  big  strapping  of- 
ficer, with  both  hands  free,  and  a  loaded  revolver  in  his 
hip  pocket,  walking  beside  or  behind  a  one-legged  man 
with  hands  cuffed  together. 

Quite  frequently  officers  lose  the  key  to  the  handcuffs 
or  shackles  and  the  victim  is  utterly  helpless.  An  as- 
sortment of  keys  is  kept  at  the  prison  for  the  purpose  of 
removing  the  manacles  in  such  cases,  but  I  know  of  sev- 
eral instances  where  the  cuffs  had  to  be  cut  off,  there 
not  being  a  key  on  the  place  that  would  unlock  them. 

Some  years  ago  a  parole  violator  was  apprehended  at 
Memphis,  Tenn.,  and  an  officer  from  the  prison  went 
there  to  return  him.  I  shall  never  forget  the  night  they 
arrived  at  San  Quentin.  Before  leaving  Memphis  the  of- 
ficer had  locked  an  "Oregon  boot"  on  the  prisoner's  leg, 
and  it  was  not  removed  during  the  journey  westward. 
They  had  been  several  days  on  the  road.  Instead  of 
sleeping  on  the  train,  they  got  off  each  night,  the  pris- 
oner being  lodged  in  a  jail  or  police  station,  and  the  of- 
ficer at  a  hotel.  The  "boot"  was  removed  from  the  pris- 
oner's leg  in  my  presence,  and  he  started  for  the  clothing 
room  to  take  a  bath  and  don  his  stripes.  As  he  did 
so  everybody  burst  out  laughing.  He  walked  exactly 
like  a  sprung  horse — the  leg  that  the  "Oregon  boot"  had 
weighted  down  for  a  week  refused  to  act  naturally.  With 
each  step  it  flew  up  as  if  pulled  by  a  spring.  Of  course, 
it  was  no  laughing  matter,  but  it  was  really  impossible  to 
see  the  grim  side  at  the  moment,  especially  as  the  victim 
laughed  himself,  and  went  off  holding  both  hands  on  the 
knee  of  the  refractory  limb  and  ordering  it  to  "stay  down, 
darn  you." 

Although  I  made  several  efforts  to  learn  why  this  de- 
vice is  called  an  "Oregon  boot"  I  never  found  out.  Aside 
from  the  discomfort — and  in  some  cases  the  torture — of 


294  My  Life  in  Prison 

the  thing,  it  is  to  be  condemned  because  of  the  shame 
which  it  brings  to  the  man  who  is  compelled  to  wear  it. 
I  have  never  seen  a  man  dragging  an  "Oregon  boot," 
without  feeling  it  a  horror  and  a  disgrace  that  he  must 
feel  in  his  very  soul.  Surely,  no  man  who  has  ever  worn 
an  "Oregon  boot"  can  ever  again  respect  the  law  that 
inflicted  it  upon  him. 

Prisoners  at  San  Quentin  are  not  allowed  to  have  any- 
thing in  their  cells  save  the  "furniture"  prescribed  by 
the  rules.  This  "furniture"  consists  of  a  bunk,  a  small 
deal  table,  a  stool,  a  water  can,  a  coal  oil  lamp  and  a 
lime-incrusted  slop  bucket — an  outfit  well  calculated  to 
turn  a  man  toward  higher  things  and  make  him  feel  that 
imprisonment  is  for  his  good. 

But  in  spite  of  rules  prisoners  persist  in  taking  contra- 
band things  into  their  cells.  Home-made  chairs  and 
boxes,  picture  frames  and  shelves,  toilet  accessories,  and 
mats,  cooking  utensils,  light  reflectors,  book  racks  and 
many  other  things  are  persistently  introduced  into  the 
cells  and  are  just  as  persistently  confiscated  by  the  of- 
ficials. There  is  a  perpetual  warfare  between  the  pris- 
oners and  the  guards  in  charge  of  the  cell  buildings,  a 
warfare  fostering  resentment,  animosity  and  hatred. 

To-day,  after  much  risk  and  patience,  a  convict  man- 
ages to  get  a  little  toilet  rack  into  his  cell.  In  it  he 
proudly  puts  his  little  piece  of  soap,  his  toothbrush  (if 
he  has  money  to  buy  one)  and  a  few  pictures.  It  has 
cost  him  much  scheming  to  get  this  piece  of  homelike  fur- 
niture. He  falls  asleep  better  satisfied  with  himself  and 
his  lot,  more  tolerant  toward  his  keepers. 

To-morrow  the  cell  guard  discovers  the  bit  of  contra- 
band furniture.  Ruthlessly  he  tears  it  from  the  wall  and 
smashes  it  to  pieces.  The  convict  returns  to  his  cell 
thinking  of  the  new  comfort,  anticipating  the  pleasure 


Donald  Lowrie  295 

it  will  give  him  during  the  long  hours  before  taps — and 
finds  it  gone. 

Perhaps  he  has  been  reported  at  the  office  and  "lost 
his  privileges" — he  won't  know  that  "for  sure"  until  Sun- 
day, when  the  tobacco  man  will  pass  his  cell  without  stop- 
ping, or  until  he  writes  his  monthly  letter  home  and 
has  it  returned  to  him  marked  "Lost  Privileges." 

The  method  employed  by  the  present  management  of 
the  inner  prison  in  this  respect  rankles  with  injustice.  A 
prisoner  may  be  reported  at  the  office  and  be  deprived  of 
his  privileges  without  having  a  chance  to  explain  or  to 
defend  himself.  In  taking  privileges  the  Captain  of  the 
Yard  has  appointed  himself  supreme  arbiter.  He  inflicts 
this  "punishment"  as  he  listeth,  and  there  is  none  to  say 
him  nay. 

"Privileges"  consist  of  a  ration  of  tobacco  each  week, 
the  receiving  of  letters  (opened  and  read  at  the  office), 
and  the  writing  of  one  letter  and  one  visit  each  month. 
When  a  prisoner's  correspondence  and  visits  from  rela- 
tives are  suddenly  cut  off  it  is  as  though  he  smashed  into 
a  stone  wall  in  the  dark.  It  leaves  him  dazed  and  im- 
potent. He  cannot  write  even  one  letter  to  let  his  rela- 
tives know  what  has  occurred. 

The  letters  that  arrive  for  him  are  filed  at  the  office 
and  kept  until  such  time  as  the  Captain  of  the  Yard  sees 
fit  to  restore  his  privileges,  or  until  the  Warden's  gen- 
eral amnesty  at  Christmas. 

Not  hearing  from  the  prisoner,  his  wife,  or  mother, 
or  sweetheart,  or  whoever  it  may  be,  imagines  all  kinds 
of  calamities.  If  they  live  at  a  distance  they  cannot 
visit  the  prison  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  silence.  They 
write  three  or  four  times,  each  letter  more  urgent  than 
its  predecessor,  but  get  no  response.  The  prisoner  does 
not  get  the  letters.  Finally  they  write  to  the  Warden, 


296  My  Life  in  Prison 

perhaps  after  two  or  three  months  of  torturing  anxiety, 
and  learn  that  their  boy  has  "lost  his  privileges." 

Sometimes  a  prisoner's  privileges  are  forfeited  while 
his  wife  or  children  are  seriously  ill,  and  for  weeks,  per- 
haps for  months,  he  has  no  way  of  finding  out  if  they 
are  alive  or  dead.  He  may  possibly  send  a  message  to 
them  by  an  outgoing  prisoner,  but  he  has  no  way  of  get- 
ting a  reply,  and  must  remain  in  ignorance  of  their  con- 
dition until  his  "lost  privileges"  are  restored.  This  is 
certainly  not  the  "blissful"  ignorance  the  poet  had  in 
mind. 

Of  course,  a  prisoner  should  be  careful  not  to  do  any- 
thing that  will  bring  a  forfeiture  of  privileges  upon  him, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  no  prisoner  should  be  subjected  to 
this  form  of  "punishment"  without  a  hearing,  especially 
as  forfeiture  of  privileges  destroys  his  eligibility  for  pa- 
role until  six  months  have  elapsed. 

Not  long  since  a  prisoner  eligible  for  parole  had  his 
privileges  "taken"  without  his  knowledge.  A  pair  of 
jute  slippers  had  been  found  in  his  bunk  in  one  of  the 
dormitories  where  there  were  nearly  100  men.  It  is  against 
the  rules  to  make  slippers — even  out  of  old  rags — but  in 
this  case  it  happened  that  the  slippers  did  not  belong  to 
the  man  in  whose  bunk  they  were  found.  They  were  the 
property  of  another  prisoner  occupying  an  adjacent 
bunk. 

The  Captain  of  the  Yard  did  not  make  any  investiga- 
tion ;  he  did  not  send  for  the  man  in  whose  bunk  the  slip- 
pers had  been  found,  but  peremptorily  ordered  that  his 
privileges  be  forfeited. 

When  the  Board  of  Directors  met  to  take  up  parole 
applications  this  man  was  scratched  from  the  list  of  elig- 
ibles  because  he  had  been  "punished"  within  six  months. 
Not  understanding  why  he  had  not  been  called  before  the 
board  for  consideration  the  prisoner  went  to  the  office  on 


Donald  Lowrie  297 

the  following  morning  to  make  inquiry.  It  was  not  until 
then  that  he  learned  that  he  had  been  "punished"  for 
having  a  pair  of  contraband  slippers  in  his  bunk. 

He  strenuously  maintained  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
the  slippers — that  he  had  never  seen  them — that  they 
were  not  his.  But  that  was  an  "old  dodge"  and  he  got 
no  satisfaction.  It  was  not  until  the  Warden  had  time 
to  take  up  the  matter  personally,  in  response  to  the  pris- 
oner's written  complaint,  that  the  injustice  was  straight- 
ened out.  Meantime  the  prisoner  had  lost  two  months'  to- 
bacco and  correspondence  and  his  chance  for  parole.  Ac- 
cording to  the  scriptures,  the  sun  and  rain  fall  alike  upon 
the  just  and  the  unjust,  but  according  to  the  dictates  of 
an  individual  subordinate  prison  official  the  scriptures 
are  wrong. 

In  the  effort  to  keep  contraband  articles  out  of  the 
cells  the  guards  make  regular  "raids,"  and  when  they 
get  through  searching  a  cell  it  looks  like  a  scrambled  egg. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  found  my  cell  in  this 
condition.  I  had  left  it  spick  and  span  when  I  went  to 
work  in  the  morning,  and  when  I  arrived  at  the  door 
that  night  I  found  everything  on  the  floor.  Mattress, 
blankets,  letters,  books,  table,  stool  and  lamp  were  all  to- 
gether in  an  indiscriminate  heap. 

At  first  I  did  not  understand  what  it  meant,  and  while 
I  was  still  contemplating  the  wreck  the  counting  officer 
flitted  past  and  the  door  was  slammed  upon  me.  Pres- 
ently I  heard  the  man  in  the  next  cell  cursing  vigorously, 
and  from  the  nature  of  his  blasphemy  I  knew  that  his  cell 
was  in  a  condition  similar  to  mine,  and  learned  that  he 
had  been  "frisked." 

I  had  been  working  at  a  loom  all  day  and  was  tired. 
In  a  very  bitter  frame  of  mind  I  preceded  to  straighten 
things  out  as  best  I  could  in  the  narrow  space.  In- 
stead of  reading  or  studying  that  night  I  walked  up  and 


298  My  Life  in  Prison 

down — three  steps  each  way — and  fumed.  I  had  not  lost 
anything,  so  far  as  I  could  determine,  but  the  next  morn- 
ing I  learned  that  men  all  about  me  had  lost  some  of 
their  most  treasured  belongings. 

As  there  are  no  printed  rules  concerning  such  matters 
I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  it,  but  with  the  passing 
of  time  I  learned  that  there  have  to  be  restrictions  placed 
over  the  men  in  this  regard  to  keep  them  from  filling  their 
cells  with  "junk."  Of  course,  the  "junk" — little  com- 
forts— doesn't  do  any  real  harm,  but  there  must  be  dis- 
cipline. It  will  never  do  for  prisoners  to  make  their  cells 
comfortable.  A  bare  and  cheerless  cell  is  a  part  of  the 
discipline. 

Prisoners  are  discharged  from  San  Quentin  in  the  early 
morning.  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  Smoky  left.  I 
saw  him  coming  over  from  the  yard  to  the  clothing  room 
as  soon  as  the  unlock  bell  ceased  ringing.  He  had  his 
mattress  and  blankets  rolled  together,  and  was  carrying 
them  on  his  back  like  a  pack  peddler.  One  of  the  prison 
rules  is  that  a  prisoner  whose  term  has  expired  must 
bring  his  mattress  and  blankets  to  the  clothing  room  on 
the  morning  of  his  discharge. 

The  turnkey  has  the  bundle  untied  in  his  presence,  and 
looks  to  see  that  there  are  two  and  a  half  pairs  of  blan- 
kets in  the  roll.  As  the  bedclothing  supplied  to  prisoners 
is  insufficient  in  winter,  men  about  to  be  discharged  are 
besieged  for  their  blankets.  If  a  man  is  not  posted  as  to 
the  rules  and  gives  one  of  his  blankets  away  it  is  discov- 
ered when  he  arrives  at  the  office,  and  he  is  not  permitted 
to  dress  until  he  has  returned  to  the  cell  buildings  and 
recovered  the  donated  blanket. 

Sometimes  a  prisoner  whose  blankets  are  comparatively 
new  exchanges  with  an  old  lifer,  because,  after  a  number 
of  years,  the  blankets  wear  thin,  and  a  short-term  man's 
blankets  are  still  in  fairly  good  condition  when  his  term 


Donald  Lowrie  299 

expires.  But  I  have  known  of  prisoners  being  kept  at 
the  prison  until  late  in  the  afternoon  on  the  day  of  dis- 
charge while  they  searched  for  blankets  which  they  had 
given  away. 

When  the  blankets  are  properly  accounted  for  the 
prisoner  is  taken  into  the  clothing-room  and  compelled 
to  strip  in  the  presence  of  an  officer.  He  is  not  given 
the  opportunity  to  bathe  on  the  morning  of  his  discharge, 
but  as  soon  as  the  officer  has  inspected  him  to  see  that 
he  has  nothing  concealed  about  his  body  he  is  handed  his 
discharge  clothing,  a  piece  at  a  time.  Every  precaution 
is  taken  to  see  that  he  does  not  smuggle  out  a  note,  or 
any  article.  If  he  have  letters,  or  anything  he  wishes  to 
take  with  him,  he  must  bring  them  to  the  office  the  day 
before  his  discharge  and  leave  them  for  the  inspection 
and  censorship  of  the  Captain  of  the  Yard. 

Quite  a  number  of  men  about  to  be  released  make  prom- 
ises to  those  whom  they  leave  behind,  agreeing  to  look 
up  friends  or  relatives,  or  attend  to  other  commissions. 
But  in  order  to  obviate  the  possibility  of  forgetting  ad- 
dresses a  man  of  poor  or  treacherous  memory  is  obliged 
to  resort  to  some  method  for  getting  the  desired  informa- 
tion out  with  him.  Some  of  these  methods  are  really 
clever.  I  have  known  a  man  to  be  stripped  and  carefully 
examined  to  see  if  he  had  any  message  for  the  outside 
world  on  his  person,  passed  as  not  having  any,  and  yet 
have  half  a  dozen  names  and  addresses  in  plain  sight  all 
the  time. 

The  method  is  so  startingly  original,  and  clever,  that 
it  is  difficult  for  me  to  refrain  from  telling  it.  But,  of 
course,  I  cannot  tell  anything  that  will  serve  to  harden 
the  lot  of  prisoners,  especially  prisoners  who  take  a 
chance  in  order  to  do  a  favor  for  some  other  unfortu- 
nate. Of  course,  all  prisoners  do  not  know  the  method 
I  refer  to. 


'300  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  have  seen  some  very  blundering  attempts  to  smuggle 
money  or  notes  out  of  prison.  I  recall  one  old  man  who 
had  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  in  his  mouth.  He  did  not 
know  he  would  be  compelled  to  open  his  mouth  going  out, 
the  same  as  he  had  been  compelled  to  open  it  coming 
in.  The  five  dollars  was  confiscated  and  applied  to  the 
"library  fund."  I  have  also  seen  a  ball  of  tissue  paper 
covered  with  fine  writing  taken  from  the  ear  of  a  prisoner 
about  to  be  released. 

But,  as  I  started  to  write,  Smoky's  time  was  "up,"  and 
he  dropped  his  roll  of  bedding  at  the  clothing  room  door 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  half  an  hour  before  the 
regular  dressing  time,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  were  not 
going  to  breakfast. 

"Not  on  y'r  life,"  he  answered.  "No  more  prison  swill 
f'r  y'r  Uncle,  ever  again.  I  start  this  day  clean,  an'  it's 
th'  clean  way  f'r  me  from  now  on." 

We  fell  to  talking,  and  the  conversation  by  some 
strange  twist  turned  to  the  two  men  who  had  been  hanged 
a  few  days  before. 

"I've  seen  a  good  many  men  hung  in  my  time,"  said 
Smoky,  "an'  I've  tried  t'  see  both  sides  of  it,  but  f'r  th' 
life  of  me  I  can't  see  what  good  it  does.  In  th'  old  days, 
when  a  guy  named  Jeffreys  used  t'  hang  'em  in  England 
f'r  stealin'  a  loaf  of  bread,  they  kept  on  stealing  loaves  of 
bread,  an'  in  these  days  when  they  hang  'em  f'r  murder 
they  keep  on  murderin'. 

"That  proves  that  it  don't  scare  anybody  off,  an'  if  it 
'don't  scare  'em  off,  what's  th'  use  of  doin'  it?  If  hangin' 
a  guy  stopped  some  other  guy  from  killin',  there  might 
be  some  use  in  it,  but  I  tell  y'r  it's  just  th'  savage  in  man 
— th'  cravin'  f'r  revenge — th'  thirst  f'r  blood — that  keeps 
it  goin'.  Men  like  to  see  blood,  an'  y'r  can't  get  away 
from  it.  Some  day  people'll  look  back  an'  call  us  a  lot  of 
heathens,  an'  that's  what  we  are. 


Donald  Lotvrie  301 

"An'  some  day,  when  women  get  a  say  in  makin'  th' 
law,  y'r'll  see  a  big  change  in  all  these  things.  Th'  only 
days  that  stand  out  in  my  life  are  days  when  I  met  women. 
Th'  only  kind  things  I  ever  had  done  f'r  me  was  by  women. 
If  it  wasn't  f'r  them,  what  would  us  men  do  ?  We'd  be  out 
killin*  each  other  like  a  lot  o'  beasts  in  no  time,  an'  you 
know  it.  I'm  a  great  believer  in  women,  an'  I  don't 
care  who  knows  it;  an'  that  ain't  mush;  it  ain't  any, 
weepy  dope;  it  ain't  nursin'-bottle  philosophy;  it's  what 
I  know.  Who  stands  by  a  guy  when  he's  down  and  out? 
Who  helps  him  to  get  up  when  he  tries  to?  An'  who 
pats  him  on  th'  back  an'  'preciates  th'  struggle  that  goes 
before  success?  Why,  th'  women.  Give  me  a  bunch  o* 
skirts  an'  a  fair  chance  an'  I'll  bet  I  could  make  th'  wise 
guys  look  like  a  lot  o'  lead  nickels  in  no  time. 

"A  woman  struggles  along,  raisin'  th'  kids,  an'  then 
what  happens?  It  ain't  when  th'  kid's  at  home  that  he 
goes  wrong;  you  know  that.  It's  when  he  begins  t'  feel 
his  oats  and  gets  t'  nosin'  around  town.  First  thing  y'r 
know  he  finds  out  that  th'  law — th'  law  made  by  th'  wise 
guys,  mind  y'r — gives  him  a  chance  t'  drink  booze,  an* 
see  prize  fights,  an'  do  other  things  that  he  wouldn't 
think  o'  doin'  before  his  mother,  an'  things  that  he 
wouldn't  get  a  chance  t'  learn  if  his  mother  had  a  say  on 
how  things  oughter  be  run.  I've  thought  a  whole  lot 
about  it.  Suppose  things  had  been  started  th'  other  way, 
an'  it  was  us  wise  guys  that  had  no  say.  An'  suppose 
th'  young  girls  went  out  nights  an'  got  tanked  up,  and 
did  all  th'  other  things  we  do,  while  we  stayed  at  home 
and  wondered  why  they  did  it.  An'  suppose  it  was  be- 
cause we  didn't  have  any  say.  Wouldn't  we  be  sore? 
Wouldn't  we  want  t'  do  somethin'? 

"I've  met  all  kinds  of  women,  good  and  bad,  but  mostly 
what  are  called  bad,  an'  I've  talked  t'  lots  o'  'em,  an' 
d'y'r  know,  it's  us  men,  it's  us  wise  guys  havin'  th'  hand, 


302  My  Life  in  Prison 

an'  maldn'  starvation  laws  an'  givln'  licenses  t'  red  hell- 
holes that  makes  most  o'  'em  go  wrong?  But  never  mind, 
old  man,  there's  better  times  comin',  an'  we're  goin'  to 
live  to  see  it.  All  we  got  t'  do  is  remember  that  men  are 
th'  sons  of  women  as  well  as  th'  sons  of  men." 

The  officer  came  to  dress  Smoky  in  his  "glad  rags,"  and 
a  few  minutes  later  he  shook  hfirtds  wi+h  TTIP  «nd  passed 
out  of  the  front  gate — and  out  of  my  life.  I  have  never 
heard  of  him  since  that  day.  As  we  turned  to  wave  good- 
by  before  ducking  through  the  man-gate  the  Lieutenant 
of  the  Yard  sneered  and  said: 

"I  wonder  how  long  before  that  rotten  crook  will  be 
back?" 

The  words  were  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  Here  was  a 
parasite,  without  education,  without  trade,  utterly  incom- 
petent to  earn  a  living  save  bv  manual  labor,  yet  under 
pay  by  the  State  of  California,  deliberated  sending  vicious 
thoughts  after  a  man  who  had  expiated  his  crime  by  "do- 
ing" a  twenty-year  sentence,  and  who  had  more  gold  in 
his  little  finger  than  the  officer  had  in  his  whole  body — 
though  it  happens  that  this  particular  officer  once  took 
the  Keeley  cure.  Not  only  this,  but  he  was  indicting  the 
entire  prison  system  without  realizing  it.  He  was  ad- 
mitting that  twenty  years  in  prison  had  not — according 
to  his  belief — effected  any  benefit  to  the  man  who  had 
suffered  it. 

Looking  back  to  that  last  conversation  with  Smoky, 
I  am  struck  with  the  clearness  of  his  vision.  That  was 
several  years  ago,  and  yet  he,  a  common,  ordinarv,  sup- 
posedly ignorant  person — a  *thu£r,"  according  to  the  po- 
lice— had  seen  that  man's  ultimate  salvation  is  in  the 
soft  hands  of  womankind.  At  that  time  I  did  not  believe 
in  "woman's  rights,"  but  now  I  do,  and  T  am  hoping  that 
every  woman  who  reads  this  account  of  Smoky's  homely 
prediction  will  strive  to  vindicate  him.  Smoky  brought  a 


Donald  Lowrle  303 

great  deal  into  my  life  without  my  knowing  it  at  the  time. 
Perhaps  he  may  bring  a  great  deal  more  into  yours. 

After  all,  no  life  is  wasted,  and  we  should  never  know 
about  the  mire  were  it  not  for  the  men  and  women  who 
have  risen  from  it.  For 

"In  the  mud  and  slime  of  things, 
Something  always,  always  sings/' 


CHAPTER  XXV 

At  the  time  that  the  power  for  running  the  jute  mill 
was  changed  from  steam  to  electricity,  the  man  who  had 
been  engineer  of  the  mill  for  years  found  himself  with- 
out a  job.  Although  he  was  a  Democrat,  and  the  new 
administration  strongly  Republican,  he  succeeded  in  get- 
ting the  appointment  as  Captain  of  the  Yard. 

The  running  of  a  steam  engine  does  not  seem  to  be  a 
particularly  accordant  vocation  for  fitting  a  man  to  gov- 
ern his  fellows,  yet  this  appointment  proved  to  be  a  happy 
one.  Of  course,  engineers  have  to  be  men  of  intelligence 
and  judgment,  and  they  are  generally  men  of  heart  and 
courage,  so  perhaps  a  man  from  that  walk  of  life  wasn't 
such  an  arbitrary  choice  after  all.  At  any  rate,  Mr. 
Harrison  was  fair-minded  and  was  liked  generally,  by 
officers  as  well  as  prisoners. 

The  turnkey — he  of  the  cigar-chewing  habit — was  suc- 
ceeded bv  a  big,  good-hearted,  but  blundering  man  who 
hod  worked  strenuously  in  the  gubernatorial  campaign, 
and  got  this  appointment  in  recompense  for  his  services. 
I  came  to  know  him  very  well,  and  while  he  had  grave 
faults,  he  was  also  fair-minded,  so  far  as  his  nature  would 
permit. 

Shortly  after  he  took  charge  he  changed  me  from  the 
clothing  room  to  the  turnkey's  office,  and  I  was  placed  in 
charge  of  the  records,  beginning  with  the  first  man  re- 
ceived, in  1859,  when  San  Quentin  prison  consisted  of  an 

304 


Donald  Lowrie  305 

old  ship  anchored  off  the  shore,  down  to  the  last  man  who 
had  been  received. 

There  are  eight  or  ten  different  registers  in  which  the 
records  of  men  who  have  been  confined  at  the  prison  are 
segregated  in  a  number  of  different  ways;  also  classified 
indices  of  names  for  ready  reference. 

I  soon  learned  that  many  requests  for  information  were 
received.  In  many  cases  the  data  contained  in  these  in- 
quiries was  very  meagre,  and  the  segregated  records  val- 
uable accordingly.  There  was  a  standing  rule  at  that 
time  that  no  information  should  be  furnished  concerning 
prisoners  save  to  the  Warden's  office,  and  the  Warden's 
office  never  furnished  information  save  to  qualified  of- 
ficers of  the  law  who  stated  for  what  purpose  they  de- 
sired it. 

At  one  time  in  the  past  information  concerning  men 
who  had  suffered  imprisonment  at  San  Quentin  was  sup- 
plied indiscriminately  to  any  one  who  asked,  resulting  in 
the  exposure  of  men  who  were  striving  to  make  good,  or 
even  in  blackmail.  That  was  before  Mr.  F.  W.  Reynolds 
became  the  Warden's  secretary.  He  took  the  stand  that 
a  discharged  prisoner  is  entitled  to  the  protection  of  the 
prison  officials  as  much  as  other  people  are  entitled  to 
know  about  him.  I  mention  him  because  he  is  one  of 
Ihe  men  at  the  penitentiary  who  earns  his  salary,  and 
because  he  has  always  been  the  friend  of  all  prisoners 
who  are  friends  to  themselves. 

The  turnkey's  office  is  situated  between  the  Captain  of 
the  Yard's  office  and  the  clothing  room,  and  the  only  en- 
trance to  the  "female  department"  is  through  that  room. 
Owing  to  this  fact  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  matron  and 
the  women  prisoners. 

One  of  my  duties  was  to  question  all  incoming  prison- 
ers in  the  presence  of  the  turnkey  and  have  them  sign  an 
inventory  of  the  property  taken  from  them  when  received, 


306  My  Life  in  Prison 

and  an  order  permitting  the  prison  authorities  to  open 
their  mail. 

Women  prisoners  are  no  exception  to  this  rule,  so  I 
saw  them,  too.  Also  when  a  woman  prisoner  has  a  "recep- 
tion" (a  visitor)  she  is  obliged  to  pass  through  the  turn- 
key's office  on  her  way  out  and  back. 

Shortly  after  I  took  up  my  duties  in  this  new  position 
I  saw  a  woman  carried  into  the  prison  under  sentence  of 
fourteen  years.  The  exact  facts  of  the  case  are  nebulous 
in  my  mind  now,  but  she  had  been  accused  and  convicted 
of  having  shot  a  livery  stable  man  in  one  of  the  south- 
ern counties.  From  the  moment  of  her  arrest  she  stoutly 
protested  her  innocence.  It  was  proved,  however,  that 
she  had  a  grievance  against  the  wounded  man,  and  cir- 
cumstances were  against  her.  When  she  learned  that  she 
was  to  be  tried  she  refused  to  come  out  of  her  cell  in  the 
jail.  She  even  refused  to  dress.  The  law  had  never 
coped  with  a  situation  of  this  kind  before,  but  proved 
equal  to  it. 

The  woman  was  covered  with  a  robe  and  carried  into 
court  on  a  stretcher.  She  was  tried  lying  on  this  stretch- 
er. She  was  convicted  lying  on  this  stretcher.  She  was 
sentenced  to  fourteen  years'  imprisonment  lying  on  the 
stretcher;  and  when  the  time  came  to  bring  her  to  the 
penitentiary  two  Deputy  Sheriffs,  accompanied  by  a  ma- 
tron, carried  her  to  the  train. 

Arrived  at  San  Francisco,  they  carried  her  to  the  ferry. 
At  Sausalito  she  was  carried  to  another  train,  and  at 
Green  Brae  she  was  carried  to  the  stage.  When  the  stage 
drew  up  before  the  prison  portcullis  she  was  carried  in- 
side. 

Her  refusal  to  walk  had,  of  course,  made  the  case  more 
or  less  notorious,  and  her  arrival  at  the  prison  had  been 
anticipated.  When  the  man-gate  opened  and  a  Deputy 


Donald  Lowrie  307 

Sheriff  stepped  inside  backward,  with  a  woman's  feet  in 
his  grasp,  we  all  knew  what  was  coming. 

The  poor,  wretched  body  was  pulled  through  the  open- 
ing, and  then  came  the  second  man,  supporting  the  wom- 
an's shoulders.  He  was  followed  by  a  smug  matron  with 
her  nose  in  the  air.  As  they  came  up  the  walk  to  the 
office  veranda  we  all  "rubbered" — as  you  would  have  done. 
We  all  wanted  to  see  what  "she"  looked  like. 

It  was  not  until  they  brought  her  into  the  turnkey's 
office  and  laid  her  on  the  floor  that  I  saw  her  face  dis- 
tinctly. The  outline  and  the  features  have  escaped  my 
memory,  but  I  recall  that  it  seemed  as  though  I  were 
gazing  into  the  face  of  all  the  suffering  that  one  human 
being  could  endure  and  live. 

Before  her  arrival  there  had  been  a  division  of  opinion 
regarding  her.  Some  of  the  men  at  the  office  held  that 
she  was  a  fool;  others  that  she  was  probably  innocent 
and  felt  the  injustice  so  keenly  that  she  had  taken  the 
only  possible  way  of  expressing  her  protest  and  anguish 
of  mind. 

But  when  I  looked  at  her  face  my  sympathy  was  all 
with  her.  She  was  nearing  middle  age  and  had  a  good, 
womanly  face. 

Mr.  Sullivan,  the  new  lieutenant  of  the  yard,  a  man 
who  had  more  real  influence  with  prisoners  than  any  other 
person  on  the  reservation,  drew  up  a  chair  beside  the 
prostrate  woman  and  tried  to  reason  with  her.  He  told 
her  gently  that  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the  prison  officials 
that  she  had  been  brought  there;  that  they  were  not  re- 
sponsible for  it,  and  that  they  wanted  to  treat  her  kindly 
and  take  good  care  of  her,  and  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't 
get  up.  A  suspicious  moisture  gathered  in  her  eyes  and 
for  a  moment  we  thought  she  was  going  to  respond,  but 
just  then  a  superior  official  came  bustling  into  the  room. 

"Come,  madame,"  he  said;  "the  time  for  this  nonsense 


308  My  Life  in  Prison 

is  past.  You're  in  the  State  prison  now,  and  we  don't 
carry  anybody  around  here.  Get  up !" 

Whatever  the  lieutenant  might  have  accomplished  had 
he  had  a  few  more  minutes  must  be  left  to  conjecture.  I 
believe  he  would  have  succeeded  in  breaking  the  woman's 
determination,  and  that  she  would  have  got  up  and  walked 
into  the  "female"  department  without  assistance,  but 
with  this  harsh  and  unfeeling  command  it  was  "all  off." 
A  hard  look  came  into  the  woman's  eyes,  and  she  made 
no  reply. 

The  officer,  now  realizing  that  he  had  make  a  mistake, 
changed  his  tone  and  tried  to  coax  her  to  rise.  She  simply, 
lay  there  and  stared  at  the  ceiling.  Finally  he  lost  pa- 
tience. 

"Open  the  door  and  take  her  inside,"  he  ordered. 

The  matron,  who  had  arrived  meanwhile,  promptly 
opened  the  door  leading  into  the  yard  of  the  "female"  de- 
partment, and  the  woman  was  carried  in. 

"Lay  her  right  down  here,"  ordered  the  officer. 

The  woman  was  laid  down  on  the  asphaltum  just  in- 
side the  doorway. 

He  went  and  stood  over  her. 

"Now,  madame,  you're  in  San  Quentin  prison,  in  the 
women's  prison,  and  your  commitment  is  for  fourteen 
years.  We  are  not  going  to  carry  you  any  further.  You 
can  lie  here  as  long  as  you  like,  but  you're  going  to  get 
up  yourself.  If  you  don't  you  can  lie  there  until  you 
rot." 

Turning  to  the  matron  he  told  her  to  see  that  this  order 
was  carried  out  to  the  letter,  and  then  we  all  stepped  back 
and  the  door  was  closed. 

All  afternoon  the  woman  lay  on  the  asphaltum.  When 
night  came  the  other  women  prisoners  carried  her  up- 
stairs and  into  a  cell.  For  several  months  she  never 
came  out  of  the  cell,  never  got  up  from  the  bed,  so  far 


Donald  Lowrie  309 

as  anyone  knew.  Her  meals  were  carried  to  her  and  her 
other  wants  attended  to  by  her  fellow  prisoners.  No  one 
seems  to  know  just  when  she  first  got  up  and  began  to 
wait  on  herself,  but  after  a  year  or  so  she  gradually  be- 
gan to  .come  out  of  the  cell,  and  finally  resumed  normal 
use  of  her  faculties.  That  was  several  years  ago.  The 
woman  is  still  a  prisoner  at  San  Quentin,  nearly  forgot- 
ten. 

The  "Female"  Department! 

A  nice,  pleasant,  human  designation,  isn't  it?  I  have 
heard  it  claimed  that  imprisonment  is  not  nearly  so  irk- 
some to  women  as  it  is  to  men — that  indoor  life  and  con- 
finement are  natural  for  females.  In  passing  through 
menageries,  however,  I  have  never  been  able  to  detect  it. 
The  female  animals  in  the  narrow,  barred  cages  are  just 
as  restless  and  have  the  same  pained  expression  in  their 
eyes  as  is  the  case  with  the  male  captives.  The  only  ex- 
ception I  remember  was  a  tigress  with  three  roly-poly 
cubs  which  I  saw  at  the  San  Francisco  chutes  some 
years  ago.  She  seemed  to  be  wholly  contented,  and  when 
she  held  one  of  the  cubs  between  her  paws  and  licked  its 
soft  coat  her  purr  almost  shook  the  building. 

Of  course,  I  never  had  the  opportunity  to  roam  in  the 
"female"  department  of  the  State's  human  menagerie,  but 
I  saw  the  women  individually,  and  I  am  quite  sure  the 
"natural  confinement"  and  "indoor  life"  did  not  make 
them  happy.  Instead  they  always  looked  miserable  and 
discontented,  and,  above  all — with  some  exceptions — keen- 
ly conscious  of  their  awful  disgrace.  They  are  "female 
convicts" — a  nice,  pleasant  combination  of  two  atrocious 
words. 

There  is  something  about  the  thought  of  a  woman  in 
prison  that  bothers  the  coldest  of  men.  Even  the  men 
who  are  used  to  it,  who  see  it  day  after  day,  are  conscious 


310  My  Life  in  Prison 

of  the  incongruity  of  the  thing — thick,  iron  doors  and 
heavily  barred  windows  with  women  behind  them. 

California  has  thirty  "female  convicts."  There  is  no 
"female"  department  at  Folsom.  They  are  all  confined 
at  San  Quentin.  One  of  my  keenest  recollections  of  the 
"female"  department  is  the  case  of  a  young  Indian  girl 
committed  for  a  year  from  Modoc  county.  She  had 
been  employed  as  a  servant  and  had  stolen  from  her 
employer.  I  believe  I  know  why  she  stole.  Perhaps  you 
will,  too,  when  you  learn  the  story. 

The  judge  who  sentenced  her  was  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  there  is  no  "female"  department  at  Folsom,  and  sent 
the  girl  to  that  place,  and  the  sheriff,  also  in  ignorance, 
took  her  there.  The  Board  of  Prison  Directors  ordered 
her  transferred  to  San  Quentin. 

I  was  working  at  my  desk  the  night  they  brought  her 
in  after  lock-up.  She  was  in  her  teens,  and  her  brown 
eyes  were  full  of  terror,  but  worse  that  that,  worse  than 
all  else,  she  was  enceinte.  It  was  apparent  even  to  us 
who  were  unused  to  such  things.  It  must  have  been  ap- 
parent to  "His  Honor,"  the  judge,  but  he  had  sent  her 
in  her  shame  to  this  shameful  place.  But  then  we  must 
not  forget  that  she  had  committed  the  offence  of  stealing 
a  few  dollars.  For  this  offence  the  judge  had  been  leni- 
ent; he  had  only  sentenced  her  to  a  year  in  the  State 
prison — her  and  her  unborn  child. 

In  pity  the  night  sergeant  took  her  into  a  side  room 
before  telephoning  for  the  matron.  At  lock-up  time  the 
matron  of  the  "female"  department  counts  her  charges 
into  their  cells  and  then  goes  home  for  the  night.  When 
a  woman  prisoner  arrives  after  lock-up,  or  when  an  in- 
mate of  the  woman's  ward  becomes  ill  in  the  night  and 
the  trusty — or  trustess — rings  the  call  bell  for  the  night 
sergeant,  the  matron  is  called  by  telephone. 

While  waiting  for  the  matron  the  night  sergeant  spoke 


Donald  Lotvrie  311 

to  the  girl  kindly,  and  she  replied  in  broken  English  with 
a  little  lisp.  No  wonder  the  judge  had  sent  her  to  prison 
— she  couldn't  speak  good  English  and  she  lisped  when 
she  talked.  When  the  matron  arrived  she  took  the  girl 
by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the  place  that  was  to  be  her 
prison.  It  was  apparent  that  the  girl — the  near-mother 
— was  almost  at  the  breaking  point,  but  she  held  herself 
together  and  passed  into  the  gloom  without  a  sound. 

Steps  were  immediately  taken  to  secure  her  pasdon,  but 
pardons  are  wrapped  up  in  miles  and  miles  of  red  tape, 
and  the  child  was  born  before  the  Governor  acted.  The 
matron  arranged  with  the  Warden  so  that  the  birth  oc- 
curred outside  the  prison  walls — at  one  of  the  guards' 
cottages — but  a  few  days  later  the  mother  and  child  were 
locked  up  together  in  the  "female"  department.  The  baby 
was  the  first  male  ever  imprisoned  there. 

A  few  weeks  later  a  pardon  arrived  for  the  mother 
and  some  philanthropic  ladies  who  had  heard  of  the  case 
provided  for  her. 

Perhaps  you  may  think  this  is  an  exceptional  case,  but 
it  isn't.  A  few  months  later  a  young  woman  was  com- 
mitted from  San  Francisco  and  became  a  mother  while 
in  prison.  Her  child  was  born  inside  the  prison  walls, 
though  the  authorities  did  not  intend  that  it  should  be. 
At  first  this  girl  would  not  talk,  and  it  was  not  until  ac- 
couchement was  imminent  that  she  disclosed  the  facts. 
I  acted  as  stenographer  in  taking  her  deposition.  A 
deputy  sheriff  who  had  taken  this  girl  to  court  was  re- 
sponsible for  her  condition,  and,  according  to  natural 
law,  she  must  have  been  in  jail  at  San  Francisco  at  the 
time  of  conception.  This  deposition  and  the  other  pa- 
pers were  being  hastily  prepared  for  the  Governor's  con- 
sideration, when  the  birth  occurred,  in  the  night,  and 
prematurely. 

Nothing  further  was  ever  done  toward  fixing  the  re- 


31  £  My  Life  in  Prison 

sponsibility  upon  the  deputy  sheriff.  The  child  thrived 
in  the  prison  air,  and  the  mother  was  discharged  at  the 
end  of  her  term — also  one  year.  She,  too,  had  offended 
against  the  sacredness  of  property — a  few  dollars'  worth. 
Again  kind  ladies  undertook  the  care  of  mother  and  child, 
but  the  little  one  died  within  a  year. 

Men  are  brought  to  the  penitentiary  to  have  their  lives 
snuffed  out.  Women  are  brought  there  and  other  lives 
are  ushered  in.  The  State  is  both  executioner  and  god- 
parent. 

The  "female"  department  at  San  Quentin  is  a  terrible 
place  for  a  woman  of  refinement  or  culture.  A  large  num- 
ber of  the  unfortunates  confined  there  are  wrecks  from 
the  underworld  who  have  become  lost  to  all  sense  of 
delicacy.  Their  speech  and  actions  are  of  the  lowest 
order. 

When  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Botkin  is  forced  to  live  in 
such  an  environment  her  punishment  is  trebly  severe.  It 
makes  no  difference  what  her  crime  may  have  been,  it  is 
not  right  that  she  should  be  compelled  to  live  and  eat  with 
persons  whom  she  instinctively  shrinks  from.  Young 
women  kleptomaniacs  have  been  sent  to  San  Quentin  and 
forced  to  live  in  these  surroundings  month  after  month, 
year  after  year.  I  know  of  several  instances  of  women 
who  would  rather  die  than  defile  their  bodies,  sent  to  San 
Quentin  because  they  had  stolen  property  rather  than 
take  the  other  alternative,  and  compelled  to  live  day  after 
day  with  the  very  class  which  they  had  fought  to  avoid. 
Even  young  girls  in  their  teens  have  had  this  experience. 
It  is  certain  that  no  young  woman  can  pass  through  such 
an  ordeal  and  come  out  with  ideals  unlowered. 

The  women's  yard  is  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  high 
walls.  It  is  covered  with  asphaltum,  and  the  sun  strikes 
it  only  during  the  middle  of  the  day.  Their  confinement 
is  far  more  unendurable  than  that  of  the  men.  They  are 


Donald  Lowrie  315 

employed  in  making  the  underwear  of  the  male  prisoners 
and  at  other  sewing.  For  years  and  years  they  never 
came  out  of  their  quarters.  Under  Warden  Hoyle  and 
the  new  matron  this  has  been  changed.  One  Sunday  each 
month  the  "female"  prisoners  are  taken  outside  the  prison 
walls  and  permitted  to  roam  over  the  Marin  hills  in  the 
fresh  air  and  sunshine.  They  never  come  back  without 
wild  flowers  and  bits  of  green.  For  years  and  years  the 
women  prisoners  were  unnoticed  by  the  parole  board.  Un- 
der the  present  matron  a  number  of  them  have  been  pa- 
roled, and,  needless  to  say,  they  have  all  made  good. 

I  recently  received  a  visit  from  a  woman  who  had  served 
two  years  at  San  Quentin.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  there 
are  but  thirty  women  prisoners  in  California,  and  that 
they  could  be  easily  provided  and  cared  for  outside  of 
the  penitentiary  walls,  and  as  the  picture  in  detail  which 
this  woman  drew  of  her  life  in  San  Quentin  not  only  sub- 
stantiated my  own  experience,  but  amplified  it,  I  am  going 
to  tell  it. 

It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that  the  matron  whom 
she  depicts  and  the  conditions  which  she  describes  were 
those  which  obtained  when  she  was  a  prisoner.  She  was 
discharged  two  or  three  years  ago.  As  she  has  asked  that 
her  identity  be  kept  inviolate  I  shall  not  even  describe 
her.  The  reader  can  imagine  a  composite  woman  and 
not  be  far  wrong. 

She  asked  me  first  if  I  had  not  heard  about  a  "woman 
who  couldn't  walk,  or  wouldn't  walk,  being  kept  in  the 
dungeon  for  eighty-three  days.  Just  think  of  it !  Kept  in 
the  dark  for  eighty-three  days  on  bread  and  water!" 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  I  said,  fearing  that  she  was 
exaggerating. 

"Sure  of  it?"  she  rejoined,  tensely.  "Sure  of  it?  Why, 
every  woman  there  at  the  time  kept  track  of  the  days  and 
wondered  if  the  victim  would  ever  come  out  alive." 


314  My  Life  in  Prison 

"Tell  me  your  impressions  of  San  Quentin,"  I  urged. 
"Tell  everything  just  as  it  was.  Don't  exaggerate.  That 
doesn't  pay ;  it  doesn't  get  you  anything,  and  it  will  never 
bring  results.  But  tell  of  the  life  just  as  you  lived  it." 

"Good,"  she  responded.  "I'll  describe  the  bear-pit  just 
as  it  is;  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  felt. 

"When  I  entered  the  front  gate  I  was  pleased  with  the 
trim  garden,  the  beautiful  flowers,  the  playing  fountain. 
My  heart  was  cheered  by  the  sight.  'It  isn't  such  a  bad 
place  after  all,'  I  thought.  But  alas!  When  I  stepped 
into  the  yard  of  the  women's  quarters  I  realized  that  the 
flowers  and  the  garden  were  not  for  me.  The  place  re- 
minded me  of  the  bear-pits  where  the  poor,  captive  ani- 
mals stand  so  forlornly  and  silently  begging  for  liberty, 
and  before  I  left  I  learned  that  the  bears  are  treated  bet- 
ter than  we  were,  for  they  are  given  peanuts  and  not 
abused. 

"The  pit  at  San  Quentin  is  ninety  feet  long  and  about 
sixty  feet  wide,  but  in  this  area  are  the  buildings.  The 
walls,  some  twenty  feet  high,  are  the  same  dull  color  as 
the  buildings.  And  there,  where  mother  earth  can  never 
be  felt,  and  nothing  seen  but  a  bit  of  sky,  live  thirty 
women,  some  of  them  there  for  life,  and  such  a  life ! 

"On  the  hill  is  a  guardhouse  with  a  frowning  Gatling 
gun,  and  on  foggy  days  an  armed  guard  patrols  the  wall 
close  at  hand.  On  either  side  of  the  courtyard  are  the 
cell  buildings,  with  outside  stairways  leading  up  to  the 
cells.  Near  the  centre  of  the  court  is  a  dwarfed  pear 
tree.  The  barred  windows  of  the  cells  open  to  this  court, 
and  the  poor  creatures  confined  there  have  in  the  windows 
a  few  sickly  plants,  growing  in  old  rusty  cans,  around 
which  they  tie  paper  to  conceal  the  character  of  the  only 
flowerpots  they  may  have.  In  these  small  buildings  are 
the  laundry,  dining-room,  kitchen,  storeroom,  halls,  cells, 
and  last,  but  not  least,  the  dungeon.  In  the  yard  are 


Donald  Lowrie  315 

stretched  the  lines  for  drying  clothes  and  for  airing  the 
thin  blankets  used  at  night,  the  garbage  cans  and  the 
hopper.  What  room  is  left  for  exercise  you  can  imagine. 

"The  men  prisoners  can  gaze  at  the  flowers  and  the 
water.  Not  so  the  women.  The  bear-pit  contains  not  so 
much  as  a  rude  bench  where  one  might  rest  for  a  moment 
in  the  sun  and  air  when  not  at  work;  and  the  matron 
would  not  allow  us  to  take  out  a  chair — afraid  we  might 
hurt  the  cement,  I  suppose. 

"In  the  laundry  room,  and  only  a  few  feet  from  the 
tubs,  is  the  hopper,  an  old-fashioned  contrivance,  about 
eighteen  inches  in  diameter  at  the  top  and  narrowing  down 
to  about  six  inches  at  the  base.  Into  this  orifice  must 
go  the  morning  filth  from  the  night  buckets,  and  as  it  will 
not  hold  the  contents  of  more  than  three  at  a  time  the 
scene  is^  one  long  to  be  remembered.  There  were  two  large 
holes  in  the  cement  floor  at  that  time,  and  through  them 
the  overflow  found  its  way  under  dining-room  and  kitchen, 
so  that  these  rooms  always  reeked. 

"Every  night  the  'pit'  became  the  playground  of  hun- 
dreds of  the  largest  rats  I  have  ever  seen,  which  scampered 
and  squealed  about,  fattening  on  the  refuse  of  the  gar- 
bage cans  and  leaving  evidence  of  their  presence  every- 
where— on  stairs,  floors  and  landings.  The  smell  of  the 
rats,  the  poisonous  gases  from  the  hopper,  the  odors  from 
the  garbage  cans  and  the  buckets  and  the  excretions  of  a 
poor  diseased  dog  which  had  been  brought  in  to  kill  the 
rats  made  up  an  atmosphere  which  I  do  not  believe  exists 
anywhere  else  in  the  whole  world.  Small  wonder  that  there 
were  sore  throats,  rheumatism,  fevers  and  tuberculosis. 
The  wonder  to  me  was  that  we  managed  to  survive  at  all. 

"Upstairs,  on  the  east  side  of  the  bear-pit,  is  a  row 
of  cells,  7x10  feet,  with  barred  windows.  In  each  of  these 
two  and  sometimes  three  women  were  confined  at  night. 
(The  bedsteads  are  of  wood,  years  old,  and  are  infested 


316  My  Life  In  Prison 

with  bedbugs.  The  men  have  iron  bedsteads,  at  least 
some  of  them  do,  and  are  able  to  wage  a  more  or  less  suc- 
cessful war  against  the  bedbugs  by  soaking  the  frame- 
work of  their  beds  in  oil  and  burning  it.  But  we  had  no 
way  to  fight  off  these  parasites,  and  I  was  tortured  by 
them  during  every  night  of  my  life  in  prison. 

"Dressers  or  tables  in  these  cells  are  made  up  of  gro-  t 
eery  boxes.  There  are  generally  two  chairs  in  each  cell. 
The  straw  ticks  rest  on  the  boards  of  the  bedstead.  The 
coverings  are  blankets.  No  pillow  is  furnished.  The 
women  pick  up  scraps  from  the  sewing  room  and  make 
pillows  in  that  way.  There  is  no  provision  for  heating  the 
cells,  and  in  winter  we  used  to  go  to  bed  before  the  sun 
went  down  in  order  to  keep  warm. 

"At  the  end  of  the  court  are  three  cells  slightly  larger 
than  the  ones  I  have  described,  but  into  which  no  ray  of 
sun  ever  penetrates,  and  they  are  always  damp,  cold  and 
mouldy.  In  the  halls  are  windows  opening  toward  the 
Bowers  and  the  garden  of  the  prison  proper,  but  as  these 
windows  are  painted  white  and  sealed  down  they  serve 
no  purpose  save  that  of  furnishing  a  stingy  light. 

"Some  woman  in  the  past  scraped  the  paint  off  one 
of  these  windows  by  working  a  hair-pin  up  from  the  sill 
on  the  outside  and  making  a  spot  about  the  size  of  a  dime. 
I  used  to  watch  the  women  standing  with  one  eye  glued 
to  this  peep-hole,  gazing  longingly  at  the  flowers  below. 
I  used  to  gaze  there  myself  when  I  got  the  chance.  The 
reason  why  these  windows  are  painted  and  sealed  is  to 
keep  the  women  from  seeing  the  male  prisoners;  but  it 
also  robs  them  of  sun  and  air. 

"There  is  a  sitting-room,  furnished  with  an  old  table 
and  a  broken-down  stove,  the  broken  leg  of  which  was  re- 
placed by  a  discarded  flatiron,  and  the  grate  supported 
by  an  old  can.  It  was  a  very  peculiar  stove ;  it  had  tem- 
perament; I  shall  never  forget  it.  Instead  of  warming 


Donald  Lowrle  317 

the  room  in  winter  it  used  to  emit  puffs  of  smoke,  like  a 
steam  engine,  hour  after  hour,  all  through  the  gloomy 
winter  days,  filling  the  place  with  smoke  so  dense  that 
the  only  relief  was  to  go  outdoors  and  let  the  fire  die 
down.  Yet  this  was  the  only  place  in  the  women's  depart- 
ment where  one  could  get  warm.  This  same  room  has 
windows  opening  on  the  courtyard  of  the  main  prison, 
and  these  windows,  like  the  others,  were  sealed  down  and 
painted  on  the  outside,  so  that  there  was  no  possible 
chance  of  ventilation. 

"From  this  room  opens  another  in  which  there  are  two 
ancient  sewing  machines.  These  two  old  soldiers  were 
very  cranky  and  the  running  of  them  was  a  feat  requiring 
infinite  patience  and  endurance;  but  what  of  that?  We 
were  there  to  be  punished,  and  the  running  of  these  sew- 
ing machines  was  only  a  small  part. 

"And  then  the  matron  used  to  act  as  if  she  considered 
herself  a  special  agent  of  the  Almighty,  and  inflicted 
upon  the  women  under  her  charge  every  indignity  she 
could.  Indeed,  that  seems  to  be  the  feeling  of  all  who 
are  placed  in  charge  of  prisoners.  On  these  two  old  sew- 
ing machines  we  were  compelled  to  make  all  the  underwear 
for  the  men  prisoners,  and  such  other  garments  as  the  ma- 
tron ordered. 

"The  windows  of  the  sewing  room  are  also  painted  and 
sealed,  and  leading  from  it  is  a  hall  about  seventy  feet 
long,  into  which  open  the  remaining  eight  cells.  At  the 
end  of  this  hall  is  the  bathroom,  which  is  kept  locked,  so 
that  no  one  can  enter  it.  There  is  seldom  hot  water  for 
bathing  purposes,  and  the  women  used  to  heat  water  on 
the  smoky  stove  I  have  described  and  carry  it  in  pails  to 
their  cells.  There  were  no  rules  regarding  the  use  of  the 
bath,  and  I  knew  two  prisoners  who  did  not  take  a  bath 
during  the  two  years  I  was  there.  The  windows  in  this 


318  My  Life  In  Prison 

hall  are  also  painted  and  sealed,  so  that  no  Breath  of  air 
ever  reaches  the  toilet  or  bath. 

"At  board  meeting  times  we  used  to  be  warned  to  have 
our  cells  in  good  order.  All  cards  were  tucked  out  of 
sight;  all  cigarettes  and  matches  were  concealed.  Vari- 
ous members  of  the  board  used  to  come  in,  walk  down  the 
halls,  look  into  the  best  cells,  and  learn  nothing.  The  ma- 
tron was  always  close  at  their  heels,  and  they  could  make 
no  inquiries  of  the  women  that  she  did  not  hear.  We  all 
knew  that  a  word  of  exposure  or  complaint  uttered  in  her 
presence  was  far  beyond  the  courage  of  the  boldest  woman 
— it  meant  humiliation,  torture  and  the  dungeon  after- 
ward. 

"The  dining-room  is  about  30x20  feet.  It  adjoins  the 
laundry.  There  are  two  tables  covered  with  oilcloth.  The 
dishes  are  heavy  and  old.  The  meat  safe,  which  stands 
in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  room,  is  separated  from  the 
hopper  by  only  a  few  inches  of  ancient  wall  which  is  sat- 
urated with  seepage.  Close  to  the  east  window  are  the 
garbage  cans,  and  only  a  few  feet  distant,  against  the 
prison  wall  hang  the  thirty  or  forty  night  buckets. 

"At  breakfast  no  one  presides,  and  talking  is  permit- 
ted, but  at  dinner  stern  discipline  sits  enthroned  upon  a 
rocker  near  the  door,  and  all  that  may  be  heard  is  the 
'clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and  the  drone  of  the  distant 
jute  mill.  At  supper  time  there  is  a  wild  scramble  for 
the  food,  which  is  carried  upstairs  and  eaten  in  the  cells. 
At  4 :30  in  the  afternoon  the  key  is  turned  on  the  unhappy 
women,  and  the  long,  gloomy  night  is  before  them. 

"The  kitchen  is  a  dark,  smelly  place,  with  numerous 
holes  in  the  floor,  through  which  rats  find  ready  entrance. 
Beyond  is  the  storeroom,  and  thence  a  doorway  leading 
into  a  dark  hall  about  fourteen  feet  long.  It  is  here  that 
the  dungeons  are  located,  two  6x10  cells,  called  'holes'  by 
the  matron,  which  are  blacker  than  night,  damp  and  al- 


Donald  Lowrie  319 

together  horrible.  A  thin  straw  mattress  and  a  pair  of 
blankets  constitute  the  only  furnishing  of  this  awful  place. 
Women  are  'thrown'  into  the  dungeon  at  the  pleasure  of 
the  matron,  without  a  chance  to  defend  themselves. 

"One  women  who  had  not  stood  upon  her  feet  for  years 
was  confined  there  for  eighty-three  days  because  she  in- 
sisted on  having  a  receipt  for  valuables  that  had  been 
taken  from  her  when  she  came  into  the  prison.  During 
part  of  that  time  she  was  in  the  jacket.  Oh,  yes,  they 
use  the  j  acket  on  women  as  well  as  on  the  men. 

''Without  light,  water  or  towels,  this  poor  woman,  un- 
able to  move  save  by  crawling,  survived.  She  is  a  living 
example  of  what  the  human  body  may  endure.  She  was 
finally  brought  out  into  the  light,  given  a  pair  of  crutches 
and  put  to  work  making  buttonholes  in  the  men's  garments 
that  are  made  by  the  women.  Later,  for  a  trifling  re- 
ply, she  was  knocked  to  the  floor  by  the  matron,  dragged 
to  her  cell  and  locked  in  for  three  months,  with  no  food 
but  bread  and  water. 

"When  she  was  released  again  she  was  not  permitted 
to  have  her  crutches.  Her  mode  of  locomotion  was  to  sit 
in  a  small  rocker  and  hitch  along  the  floor.  In  order  to 
get  anything  to  eat  she  had  to  hitch  down  eighteen  steps, 
across  the  yard  to  the  dining-room,  and  back  in  the  same 
way.  In  rainy  weather  she  did  not  get  out  at  all,  but  used 
to  depend  for  food  upon  the  kindness  of  the  other  pris- 
oners who  ran  the  risk  of  being  punished  by  giving  it  to 
her. 

"And  yet  a  negress  who  threw  three  plates  at  Bertha 

B while  they  were  at  dinner,  cutting  a  severe  gash  in 

the  woman's  arm,  was  not  even  reproved  for  her  act.  In- 
deed, the  matron  said  it  served  Bertha  right,  and  that 
she  should  not  have  made  'Trixie'  mad. 

"For  a  trifling  infraction  of  the  rules  Etta  F ,  a 

half-demented  woman,  was  thrown  into  the  'hole*  for  nine 


320  My  Life  In  Prison 

days.  A  little  girl,  16  years  old,  Barbara  B ,  was 

put  into  the  dungeon  for  being  'saucy'  and  was  taken 
violently  ill  there  during  the  night.  Her  cries  were  heard 
by  the  night  watch,  and  one  of  the  men  came  in  and  re- 
leased her,  taking  her  to  her  cell.  The  matron's  rage 
when  she  came  on  duty  in  the  morning  and  found  the  girl 
had  been  released  I  shall  never  forget. 

"On  another  occasion  a  seamstress  was  confined  in  the 
'hole'  for  two  days  and  nights  because  she  could  not  make 
a  tailor  skirt  for  the  matron.  In  February,  1909,  an 
elderly  woman  was  put  in  the  'hole'  because  she  was  sus- 
pected of  having  found  a  typewritten  letter  brought  in  by 
the  matron  from  one  of  the  male  prisoners  and  intended 
for  one  of  the  younger  women. 

"Many  other  women  were  placed  in  the  dungeon  for  the 
most  trivial  reasons,  and  yet  certain  women  who  engaged 
in  fights,  who  blasphemed  and  blackguarded  those  who 
tried  to  lead  a  moral  existence,  were  never  so  much  as 
reprimanded. 

"Why  were  not  these  things  reported  to  the  Warden? 
Remember,  when  the  doors  of  the  women's  department 
close  on  a  prisoner  she  is  dead  to  the  world,  and  she  is 
never  allowed  to  see,  much  less  speak,  to  an  officer.  If 
she  asks  to  see  the  Warden  she  is  insulted. 

"  'I  am  the  Warden  here,'  the  matron  used  to  say.  *I 
wouldn't  insult  the  Warden  by  telling  him  such  a  person 
as  you  wants  to  speak  to  him.' 

"One  of  the  very  Worst  things  this  matron  used  to  do 
was  to  repeat  the  contents  of  letters.  She  opens  and 
reads  all  letters  that  come  for  the  women  prisoners.  Im- 
agine a  sensitive  woman  having  the  contents  of  her  letters 
made  public  to  the  others,  some  of  whom  were  of  the  very 
lowest  order.  This  was  done  repeatedly,  and  I  have  seen 
women  who  were  subjected  to  it  weep  alone  in  their  cells 
for  hours. 


Donald  Lowrie  321 

"We  were  not  supposed  to  see  California  newspapers,  but 
the  matron  used  to  bring  in  clippings  for  her  favorites. 
These  clippings  were  always  of  horrible  occurrences.  If 
a  paper  or  book  had  any  case  of  poisoning,  for  instance, 
it  would  be  marked  with  the  name  of  Cordelia  Botkin  and 
handed  to  that  unhappy  woman.  Cordelia  Botkin  died 
in  her  cell  from  the  effects  of  softening  of  the  brain, 
brought  on  by  the  mental  sufferings  she  endured.  Whether 
guilty  or  not,  she  was  human,  and  I  believe  God  will  have 
mercy.  She  went  through  hell  before  she  died. 

"The  work  was  not  very  hard — sewing,  scrubbing  the 
floors,  cleaning  the  windows  and  general  house  duties. 
But  each  woman  had  to  do  her  own  laundry,  and  the  hot 
water  was  scarce.  In  the  matter  of  clothing  we  were 
always  in  sore  need.  Each  woman  was  allowed  six  yards 
of  muslin,  six  yards  of  cheap  tennis  flannel  and  two  pairs 
of  cheap  hose  every  six  months,  but  woe  to  the  woman 
who  was  daring  enough  to  ask  for  her  supply. 

"I  remember  one  woman  whose  supplies  were  due  in 
April,  but  she  did  not  get  them  because  her  time  was  up 
in  August.  She  got  along  for  ten  months  with  two  pairs 
of  hose.  No  underwear,  garters,  skirts,  corsets  or  any  of 
the  necessary  women's  garments  are  furnished.  We  were 
supposed  to  make  skirts,  night  dresses,  etc.,  from  the  little 
six  yards. 

"At  the  jails  women  who  have  been  sentenced  to  the 
penitentiary  are  told  that  all  their  clothing  will  be  de- 
stroyed. This  is  done  to  induce  them  to  give  away  what- 
ever they  may  have.  As  a  result  nearly  every  woman  who 
arrives  brings  nothing  save  what  she  has  on. 

"The  shoes  were  heavy  cowhide  affairs,  but  even  these 
were  hard  to  get.  I  have  seen  women  walking  about  with 
their  feet  on  the  floor  while  waiting  the  matron's  pleasure. 
If  she  chanced  to  be  angry  with  a  woman  that  woman 
went  without  shoes  until  such  time  as  she  went  to  the 


322  My  Life  in  Prison 

matron  and  humiliated  herself  by  apologizing  for  being 
alive  and  begging  for  shoes. 

"The  State  furnished  the  women's  department  with 
sufficient  coarse  material  for  food,  but  the  cooking  was  so 
dreadful  that  all  sorts  of  stomach  troubles  were  preva- 
lent. Those  who  were  not  on  good  terms  with  the  cook, 
a  big  negress,  serving  her  third  term,  and  a  great  favorite 
with  the  matron,  were  subjected  to  indignities  in  the 
matter  of  food  that  are  simply  unprintable.  Things  were 
done  to  dishes,  and  the  portions  served,  that  cannot  be 
told  -on  paper.  These  acts  were  known  to  the  matron, 
who  repeated  them  to  the  seamstress  as  good  jokes,  and 
she  kept  this  woman  in  the  kitchen  knowing  what  atrocities 
she  practised.  I  never  partook  of  the  soup  at  my  place 
without  first  seeing  the  other  negresses,  the  friends  of  the 
cook,  partake  of  it  first. 

"When  a  woman  became  ill  she  was  to  be  pitied,  for  th£ 
matron  used  to  act  on  the  theory  that  anyone  who  claimed 
to  be  ill  was  faking.  A  woman  with  any  sensitiveness  would 
suffer  long  in  silence  before  asking  for  medical  treatment, 
and  the  physician  was  so  brutal  that  most  women  would 
drop  before  asking  for  him.  When  he  is  called  into  the 
women's  department  he  is  first  taken  to  the  office  by  the 
matron  and  told  how  to  treat  the  particular  woman  who 
has  asked  for  him.  On  one  occasion  when  Mrs.  Botkin 
asked  for  a  lemon — she  had  rheumatism,  and  craved  acids 
— he  told  her  to  drink  vinegar.  Another  time  he  was 
called  to  treat  a  little  Chinese  woman  at  8  P.  M.,  and  was 
so  incensed  at  having  to  leave  the  saloon — where,  acord- 
ing  to  the  matron,  he  spent  most  of  his  time — that  he 
used  language  so  shocking  as  to  disgust  even  the  most 
hardened  women.  He  was  often  intoxicated  when  he  came 
in,  and  chewed  tobacco.  He  used  to  expectorate  in  every 
direction.  An  instance  of  his  unfitness  was  evidenced  in 
his  treatment  of  a  little  crippled  Indian  woman  named 


Donald  Lowrie  323 

Juanita.  This  poor  creature  was  the  scullion  in  the 
kitchen,  ruled  by  the  negress  cook.  She  carried  the  heavy 
pails  of  coal,  made  fires,  scrubbed  the  floor,  lifted  the 
heavy  pots  from  the  stove,  emptied  ashes,  and  scoured 
the  dirty  pans  and  tins.  In  February,  1909,  she  com- 
plained of  severe  pains  in  her  side.  The  doctor  was  called 
and  after  a  brief  interview  told  her  she  was  a  faker  trying 
to  beat  work.  Two  weeks  later  she  fainted  while  at  work, 
and  she  never  left  her  bed  until  she  was  carried  out  in  her 
coffin  the  following  April.  When  it  was  seen  that  she 
was  dying  everything  possible  was  done  for  her,  but  it 
was  too  late.  Before  she  died  she  told  one  of  the  other 
Indian  women  that  she  had  been  killed  by  the  cook  in  the 
kitchen,  killed  by  inches. 

"I  have  been  told  that  the  State  provides  either  $50  or 
$100  for  the  care  of  women  who  suffer  childbirth  while  in 

prison.     In  1907  a  young  German  woman,  Lizzie  L , 

was  sent  to  serve  one  year  for  larceny.  She  had  been  in 
jail  at  San  Francisco  for  some  months,  and  had  been  so 
kindly  cared  for  by  one  of  the  guards  that  she  arrived 
at  San  Quentin  in  an  interesting  condition.  As  the  time 
drew  near  for  her  confinement  one  of  the  other  women, 
who  had  been  a  nurse,  went  to  the  matron  and  informed 
her  that  the  time  was  at  hand.  The  matron  discredited 
the  information  and  the  child  was  born  inside  the  prison 
walls.  The  matron  treated  it  as  a  huge  joke,  and  I  heard 
her  tell  the  Warden:  'Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter.  His 
mother  is  a  thief,  and  I  suppose  he'll  be  one,  too.'  The 
Warden  smiled  and  said :  'I  suppose  you  know  best.' 

"Religious  services?  Well,  the  chaplain,  your  friend, 
Mr.  Drahms,  came  in  five  times  during  the  two  years  I 
was  there.  He  never  spoke  to  the  women  save  in  the 
presence  of  the  matron.  When  the  Salvation  Army  wo- 
men and  the  California  Club  members  gained  an  entrance 
it  was  the  same.  And  on  Sundays  no  sooner  would  the 


324  My  Life  in  Prison 

door  be  closed  on  the  departing  visitors  than  the  matron 
would  call  for  a  dance.  The  tables  would  be  pushed  back, 
an  old  guitar  brought  out,  and  some  of  the  women  would 
go  through  the  most  degraded  contortions,  the  matron 
looking  on  and  smiling  encouragement.  Frequently  while 
religious  services  were  in  progress  upstairs  those  who  did 
not  attend  would  gamble  for  each  other's  belongings  in 
the  room  below.  All  this  on  Sunday,  mind  you ;  and  each 
and  every  person  who  came  there  in  the  hope  of  doing 
good  was  afterward  mimicked  by  the  matron  until  it  made 
one's  heart  sick,  and  many  of  the  women  preferred  spend- 
ing Sunday  in  their  cells.  The  only  person  the  matron 
seemed  to  have  any  respect  for  was  the  Catholic  priest. 
That  church  cares  for  its  own  in  its  own  peculiar  way, 
and  in  spite  of  bolts  and  bars. 

"Several  of  us  formed  a  class  for  the  study  of  the 
Gospel,  but  we  held  only  one  meeting.  We  were  informed 
by  the  matron  that  San  Quentin  was  no  place  for  the  Bible 
or  religion.  The  class  died  a  sudden  death,  and  has  never 
been  resurrected.  Some  of  the  members  of  that  class  are 
still  in  prison.  They  can  testify  to  the  truth  of  these 
statements — if  they  dare  to  do  so. 

"The  matron  had  what  she  called  a  'keen  sense  of 
humor.'  I  remember  an  instance  when  she  exercised  it 
at  the  expense  of  an  old  woman  who  is  serving  life.  This 
old  woman  had  applied  for  a  pardon  and  her  anxiety  to 
hear  the  result  of  the  application  was  pathetic.  The 
matron  conceived  the  idea  of  'handing  her  a  lemon.'  She 
arranged  with  some  of  the  men  who  worked  in  the  office, 
which  was  directly  under  the  old  woman's  room,  to  talk 
in  loud  voices  and  impart  the  information  that  eighteen 
men  and  one  woman  had  been  pardoned.  The  old  woman 
was  in  the  habit  of  lying  with  her  ear  to  the  floor  so  that 
she  might  gather  such  scraps  of  conversation  as  she  could 
from  the  office  below,  and  the  matron  knew  of  it.  So  the 


Donald  Lowrie  325 

men,  in  ignorance  of  the  matron's  purpose,  and  just  to 
please  her,  did  as  she  asked.  In  conversation  that  night 
they  made  the  statement  that  the  Governor  had  pardoned 
eighteen  men  and  one  woman.  The  poor  old  woman  was 
so  excited  when  she  heard  this  that  she  tried  to  call  down 
through  the  floor  and  learn  who  the  woman  was,  but  they 
did  not  hear  her.  All  that  night  she  walked  the  floor  in 
an  agony  of  suspense,  only  to  learn  in  the  morning  that 
it  was  a  cruel  hoax. 

"At  one  time  a  young  girl  had  applied  for  parole,  and 
the  parole  officer  wrote  to  the  matron  regarding  the  ap- 
plicant. When  the  matron  came  in  that  morning  she 
saw  Louise  standing  on  the  stairway,  and  shaking  her 
fist  at  the  girl,  exclaimed: 

"'Applying  for  parole,  hey?  Well,  you  can  bet  I'll 
knock  that  on  the  head.  I'll  tell  them  you're  a  tough." 

"This  because  the  girl  had  incurred  the  matron's  dis- 
pleasure months  before  for  some  petty  offence,  and  had 
never  'knuckled  down'  and  toadied  to  the  matron  after 
her  punishment. 

"No  woman  has  ever  left  San  Quentin  as  good  as  she 
went  in.  There  was  no  chance  to  become  better.  The 
constant  terror  in  which  they  lived,  the  awful  language 
they  were  obliged  to  hear,  the  abuse  they  had  to  take  in 
silence,  the  partiality  they  saw  shown  daily,  the  example 
of  a  cruel,  Godless  woman,  who  broke  the  Warden's  rules 
with  impunity,  did  not  tend  to  reform  anyone,  and  to  a 
sensitive  woman  the  punishment  was  beyond  description. 

A  Judge  who  sends  a  girl  like  Ruby  C to  such  a  place 

should  go  down  on  his  knees  and  stay  there  until  the  day 
of  his  death.  He  certainly  commits  a  greater  wrong  than 
the  victim  of  his  judgment. 

"Some  one  will  say  that  women  who  commit  crime  should 
be  punished.  That  may  be  true,  but  are  they  not  pun- 
ished enough  by  being  deprived  of  home,  love  and  liberty  ? 


326  My  Life  in  Prison 

Must  they  be  tortured?  Can  they  not  have  at  least  the 
same  privileges  as  the  men?  Can  they  not  have  a  little 
ground  instead  of  asphaltum  and  boards?  Can  they  not 
be  given  enough  clothing  to  keep  them  warm?  Can  they 
not  be  treated  like  human  beings? 

"In  addition  to  the  habit  of  revealing  the  contents  of 
letters  that  were  sent  to  the  prisoners  under  her  charge, 
the  matron  used  to  eavesdrop  at  the  cell  doors  to  learn 
what  was  said  of  her.  She  also  used  to  play  the  women 
against  one  another,  and  each  week  she  had  a  different 
spy  to  report  to  her.  If  this  spy  chanced  to  be  unscrupu- 
lous, as  was  nearly  always  the  case,  and  was  unable  to 
gather  any  real  information,  she  would  manufacture  some- 
thing against  other  women  in  order  that  she  might  retain 
the  matron's  favor  for  herself.  The  results  of  such  a 
pernicious  system  frequently  made  women  contemplate 
suicide. 

"Sometimes  when  one  of  us  had  incurred  the  matron's 
displeasure  she  would  not  speak  to  or  notice  us  for  weeks 
at  a  time.  Meanwhile  one  would  not  dare  to  ask  the 
reason,  well  knowing  that  it  would  bring  a  tirade  of  abuse. 
If  one  remained  silent  and  did  not  ask  for  an  explanation 
the  matron  would  become  more  and  more  savage,  and  then 
some  day,  at  the  slightest  pretext,  the  storm  would  burst, 
and  the  language  would  be  terrible. 

"Young  girls  who  had  perhaps  Heen  wild  and  wayward, 
Hut  not  vicious,  were  gradually  initiated  into  smoking, 
gambling  and  other  vices  too  awful  to  mention,  by  women 
who  were  hardened  and  seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  drag- 
ging the  young  feet  into  the  quagmire  from  which  a 
woman  can  never  escape.  The  matron  used  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  telling  the  prisoners  that  they  were  forever  branded, 
and  that  they  could  never  hope  to  live  a  moral  life  after 
having  been  in  San  Quentin.  Those  who  were  weak  and 
Respondent  naturally  became  discouraged,  and,  feeling 


Donald  Lowrie  887 

that  they  were  to  be  outcasts  forever,  imbibed  as  many  of 
the  outcast's  ways  as  they  possibly  could  in  order  to  fit 
themselves  to  live  that  kind  of  life  to  the  best  advantage 
financially. 

"I  have  forgotten  one  thing,  and  that  was  the  under- 
garments made  by  the  women  who  had  no  friends  or 
money.  Scraps  were  purloined  from  the  material  sent  in 
for  the  manufacture  of  the  men's  underclothing,  and  when 
sufficient  of  these  scraps  had  been  accumulated  the  women 
used  to  piece  them  together  and  make  their  own  garments 
in  that  way.  I  counted  247  pieces  in  one  garment.  Of 
course,  the  seams  in  such  garments  were  rather  bulky,  and 
one  day  the  matron  ordered  that  no  more  of  that  kind  of 
clothing  be  sent  to  the  laundry,  as  it  'broke  the  wringers.' 

"On  ordinary  days  we  were  locked  in  our  cells  at  4 :30 
P.  M.,  but  on  Sundays  and  holidays  we  were  shut  in  at 
8:30  P.  M.  The  unlock  is  at  7  A.  M.  On  Sunday  eve- 
nings, wearied  by  the  long  confinement,  the  women  used 
to  talk  to  one  another  across  the  court,  and  some  of  the 
stories,  which  everyone  could  hear,  were  such  as  to  make 
the  blood  curdle.  And  yet  young  girls  who  had  been 
unfortunate  enough  to  be  committed  to  that  place  were 
obliged  to  hear  them.  Knowing  what  I  do  I  would  rather 
kill  a  girl  of  mine  than  have  her  sent  to  such  an  environ- 
ment for  even  a  week. 

"Whenever  a  woman  who  was  expert  with  a  needle  came 
in  she  was  immediately  put  to  work  making  garments  for 
the  matron.  To  my  certain  knowledge,  hundreds  of  yards 
of  crocheted  insertion  and  edging  found  its  way  to  her 

cottage  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  prison.  Rose  P 

was  kept  busy  for  two  years  doing  Spanish  drawnwork 
and  eyelet  embroidery.  Mrs.  Botkin  crocheted  shawls 
and  did  woven  work  on  lunch  cloths  and  other  pieces. 

Nada  L had  with  her  when  she  arrived  three  beautiful 

pieces  of  handwork.  In  less  than  a  month  the  matron 


328  My  Life  in  Prison 

had  them  in  her  possession.  The  girl  gave  them  to  Her 
in  order  to  keep  in  favor.  They  were  the  very  last  things 
the  prisoner  had,  but  that  made  no  difference.  Personally, 
I  donated  a  yard  of  silk  velvet  from  the  hat  which  I  had 
on  when  I  entered  the  prison  to  make  a  collar  for  some 
man's  coat,  the  matron  asking  me  for  it,  and  saying  that 
she  couldn't  get  any.  I  got  a  dose  of  the  dungeon  after- 
wards, and  it  served  me  right  for  being  so  easy.  Ruby 

C had  several  yards  of  fine  linen  sent  her  by  friends, 

and  was  inveigled  into  parting  with  a  beautiful  shirtwaist 

which  she  had  embroidered.  Grace  G was  kept  busy 

at  the  very  finest  kind  of  silk  embroidery,  and  made  not 
less  than  a  dozen  pieces.  Some  of  these  women  were  in 
turn  given  extra  privileges.  In  some  cases  they  were  made 
trusties. 

"At  one  time  the  chapkiin  arranged  that  some  books 
should  be  sent  in  to  us  from  the  men's  library.  Imme- 
diately the  matron  gave  the  office  of  librarian  to  one  of 
the  worst  women  confined  there.  She  had  the  selection 
of  the  books  exclusively,  and  of  course  the  selections  were 
not  elevating. 

"One  woman,  a  half-demented  negress,  was  locked  in 
her  cell  for  four  years.  A  month  before  her  ten-year 
term  expired  she  was  taken  from  this  cell  and  transferred 
to  the  insane  asylum.  Shortly  after  her  arrival  there  she 
assaulted  one  of  the  attendants  with  a  pair  of  scissors, 
and  two  weeks  after  she  left  us  she  was  in  her  grave.  Un- 
doubtedly she  was  a  bad  woman,  but  why  was  she  kept 
locked  in  a  cell  four  years  before  being  taken  to  the 
asylum  ? 

"The  women  prisoners  are  not  allowed  to  receive  any- 
thing to  eat  from  outside.  This  always  seemed  to  me  to 
be  an  unnecessary  hardship.  Many  of  the  women's  friends 
would  have  been  glad  to  send  them  things  had  they  been 
permitted  to  do  so,  and  I  believe  that  were  prisoners 


Donald  Lowrie  329 

allowed  to  have  such  things  from  those  who  love  them  it 
would  tend  to  keep  them  from  straying  so  far  from  the 
paths  of  right  and  virtue. 

"Of  course,  you  are  wondering  why  these  things  have 
not  been  told  before.  One  reason  is  that  the  women  have 
been  afraid  to  speak,  and  another  is  that  the  majority  of 
them  are  not  of  a  very  high  order  of  intelligence.  Some- 
one always  has  to  be  the  first  to  let  the  light  in. 

"On  June  9,  1909,  I  made  all  these  facts  known  to  the 
Warden  and  he  promised  to  investigate  them.  On  October 
1  of  the  same  year  the  matron  was  removed.  I  have  been 
told  that  conditions  have  greatly  improved  since  that 
time,  but  I  am  sure  that  they  could  be  much  better.  As  a 
woman  who  has  suffered,  and  as  one  who  knows  that  such 
a  place  only  breeds  vice  and  hate,  I  hope  the  women  of 
California  will  make  an  effort  to  bring  about  better  con- 
ditions for  women  prisoners. 

"In  telling  you  this,  Mr.  Lowrie,"  she  concluded,  "I 
want  to  assure  you  that  I  am  not  actuated  by  malice  or 
revenge  to  anyone.  I  feel  that  I  paid  my  debt  to  the 
State  in  full,  and  I  know  that  I  suffered  just  as  much  from 
the  effects  of  seeing  others  suffer  as  I  did  for  myself. 
My  hope  is  that  what  I  have  told  you  will  result  in  benefit 
to  those  women  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  be  sent 
to  prison,'7 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

During  the  weeks  that  followed  the  earthquake  the  usual 
regularity  of  the  prison  was  broken  up.  It  had  been  a 
terrible  experience  to  the  men  in  the  cells,  but  their  ex- 
perience was  so  inconsequential  compared  with  what 
others  suffered  that  it  is  not  worth  telling. 

For  days  afterward  the  prison  ovens  were  kept  hot  and 
bread  was  baked  from  morning  till  night  for  the  refugees 
in  San  Francisco.  Blankets  were  also  supplied. 

Early  that  summer  it  was  decided  to  remove  the  hill 
back  of  the  prison  to  make  a  site  for  the  proposed  new 
buildings.  It  was  an  immense  undertaking  and  would 
require  a  large  force  of  men. 

The  population  of  San  Quentin  had  fallen  off  after  the 
earthquake  and  there  were  not  enough  prisoners  available 
for  the  new  work — they  were  all  employed  in  the  jute  mill 
and  shops.  So  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors  or- 
dered fifty  prisoners  transferred  from  Folsom.  They 
arrived  on  June  80,  1906.  They  were  brought  down  the 
Sacramento  River  on  a  steamer,  handcuffed  and  chained 
together,  with  armed  guards  over  them,  and  in  stripes. 
Of  course,  under  the  system,  they  had  to  be  closely 
guarded,  but  had  anything  happened  to  the  boat  they  all 
would  have  been  drowned  in  their  chains. 

When  the  order  was  issued  for  the  transfer  from  Fol- 
som to  San  Quentin  the  officials  at  Folsom  seized  upon  the 
opportunity  to  get  rid  of  the  worst  characters  confined 

330 


Donald  Lowrie  3311 

there.  A  close  canvass  of  the  records  was  made  for  this 
purpose  and  men  of  the  most  vicious  tendencies  were 
selected.  Quite  a  number  of  prisoners  who  had  relatives 
living  in  San  Francisco  made  application  to  be  included 
so  that  they  might  be  nearer  their  homes  and  thus  have 
more  frequent  visits,  but  no  attention  was  paid  to  them. 
Of  course,  not  all  of  the  fifty  who  were  selected  were  really 
vicious,  but  the  officials  at  Folsom  judged  them  to  be  so. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  some  of  them  turned  out  to  be  excel- 
lent men,  and  several  with  whom  I  subsequently  became 
personally  acquainted  I  count  among  the  best  men  I 
know. 

The  fifty  prisoners  arrived  at  San  Quentin  garbed  in 
the  hideous  Folsom  stripes.  At  San  Quentin  the  stripes 
are  about  an  inch  and  a  quarter  wide  and  run  perpendicu- 
larly. The  Folsom  stripes  are  about  three  inches  wide 
and  run  horizontally.  Perpendicular  stripes  make  men 
look  taller  than  they  really  are,  while  horizontal  stripes, 
especially  the  broad  ones,  make  them  appear  short. 

When  these  fifty  men  arrived  they  looked  squat,  chunky 
and  repulsive.  All  the  caricatures  of  convicts  in  the  maga- 
zines and  other  periodicals  favor  the  horizontal  stripes 
because  they  make  a  more  offensive  showing  than  do  the 
perpendicular. 

These  fifty  men  were  not  provided  with  San  Quentin 
clothing,  but  were  assigned  to  work,  and  mingled  with 
the  other  prisoners  just  as  they  were.  This  was  a  matter 
of  economy.  It  would  have  required  fifty  new  outfits  had 
their  clothing  been  changed.  It  was  much  cheaper  to  let 
them  wear  the  Folsom  stripes  until  they  were  worn  out. 
Of  course,  the  Folsom  clothing  could  have  been  shipped 
back  and  used  where  it  belonged,  and  the  State  would  not 
have  lost  anything,  but  no  one  thought  of  that. 

The  "ring-around"  stripes  made  these  Folsom  men  very 
conspicuous,  and  after  a  few  days  it  became  evident  that 


332  My  Life  in  Prison 

they  felt  the  disgrace.  Some  of  them  secured  sandpaper 
and  "wore  out"  their  clothing  in  a  few  hours.  But  those 
who  were  timid  dared  not  adopt  this  measure  and  remained 
conspicuous  for  months.  Still  others  took  extra  care  of 
their  "ring-arounds"  because  it  had  been  bruited  that  the 
men  in  the  transfer  were  a  "tough. lot,"  and  they  wanted 
to  enjoy  the  notoriety  of  being  in  that  class  as  long  as 
possible. 

Among  the  fifty  were  several  dangerous  lunatics,  and 
the  Folsom  authorities  had  sent  no  word  concerning  them. 
One  of  these,  a  man  serving  two  years,  had  a  mania  for 
killing,  and  without  apparent  cause  crushed  the  skull  of 
the  man  who  was  working  alongside  of  him  a  few  weeks 
after  his  arrival.  The  victim  died. 

His  assailant  was  tried  at  San  Rafael  for  murder,  con- 
victed and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life  at  Folsom. 
Shortly  after  he  arrived  there  he  committed  suicide  in  the 
idungeon. 

Another  was  Ed  C ,  a  prisoner  whom  I  had  seen 

before.  His  story  illustrates  the  heartlessness  of  the  sys- 
tem better  than  any  individual  case  I  know. 

While  I  had  been  in  jail  before  going  to  San  Quentin 

C was  brought  in,  charged  with  grand  larceny.  He 

was  about  35  years  of  age,  over  6  feet  tall  and  weighed 
110  pounds.  He  looked  more  like  an  animated  bean-pole 
than  any  human  being  I  have  ever  seen.  We  did  not  dis- 
cover he  was  "loco"  until  he  had  been  in  the  jail  two  days. 
The  first  intimation  we  had  of  his  mental  chaos  was  his 
manner  of  greeting  all  questions  with  grimaces  and  mono- 
syllables. Then  he  had  several  bad  nights,  when  he  kept 
us  all  awake. 

When  the  time  came  for  his  trial  he  pleaded  guilty,  but 
acted  so  queerly  that  the  judge  decided  to  impanel  a  jury 
and  have  them  decide  as  to  his  sanity.  None  of  the  pris- 
oners at  the  jail  were  called  as  witnesses.  The  District 


Donald  Lowrie  333 

Attorney  made  an  impassioned  plea  to  twelve  men,  who 
had  been  impressed  from  convenient  street  corners,  asking 
them  not  to  let  this  sly  faker  deceive  them,  but  to  return 
a  verdict  that  would  send  him  to  the  penitentiary,  where 
he  belonged. 

The  jury  promptly  found  C "sane,"  and  he  was 

sentenced  to  the  penitentiary.  He  came  back  to  the  jail 
grinning.  When  they  handcuffed  and  shackled  him  for 
the  journey  to  Folsom  he  grinned  and  jabbered. 

After  his  arrival  at  Folsom — according  to  eye-witnesses 
— he  was  beaten  and  kicked  from  cell  to  dungeon,  from 
dungeon  to  rockpile,  from  rockpile  to  hospital,  and  from 
hospital  to  dungeon  again.  At  last,  to  get  rid  of  him,  the 
Folsom  authorities  shipped  him  to  San  Quentin  in  the 
transfer. 

He  was  put  to  work  on  the  "hill"  along  with  the  rest  of 
his  Folsom  brethren.  He  worked,  but,  like  many  insane 
persons,  persisted  in  taking  his  time,  a  sort  of  go-as-you- 
please  fashion.  He  was  prodded,  dungeoned,  jacketed  and 
beaten,  and  finally  found  his  level  in  "crazy  alley."  Day 
by  day  he  became  more  pitiable,  jabbering  incessantly.  If 
offered  a  sack  of  tobacco  he  would  refuse  it,  but  if  some 
one  threw  a  Russell-Sage  cigarette  stump  through  the 
palings  he  would  pounce  upon  it  savagely  and  go  off  chat- 
tering like  a  monkey.  He  became  thinner  and  thinner,  until 
it  was  painful  to  look  at  him.  Finally  he  and  a  man  who 
had  softening  of  the  brain  were  taken  frm  the  alley  one 
morning,  handcuffed  together,  and  shipped  to  the  insane 
asylum  at  Napa. 

C had  no  idea  where  he  was  going,  but  showed  an 

inclination  to  hang  back.  A  few  weeks  ago,  while  on  a 
visit  to  Napa,  I  passed  through  the  asylum.  I  kept  a 
sharp  lookout  for  C ,  but  did  not  see  him. 

We  did  not  visit  the  graveyard. 

And  while  at  Napa  I  could  not  help  comparing  the  lot 


334  My  Life  in  Prison 

of  the  men  I  saw  there  with  that  of  the  men  in  "crazy 
alley,"  at  San  Quentin.  At  Napa  the  patients  spend  near- 
ly the  entire  day  in  the  grounds.  There  are  trees  and 
shrubs  and  flowers  and  lawns,  and  the  space  is  so  ample 
that  they  scarcely  look  like  a  crowd.  Those  who  are  able 
to  work  in  the  gardens  and  about  the  buildings.  There 
were  many  grievous  sights,  but  it  was  good  to  see  that  the 
unfortunates  were  given  as  much  freedom  as  possible  and 
kept  close  to  nature. 

But  in  "crazy  alley"  at  San  Quentin  it  is  dark  and 
damp.  During  the  winter  months  the  sun  strikes  the  pave- 
ment there  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  morning  only.  During 
these  few  moments  the  dements  hug  that  side ;  they  bright- 
en up  in  the  grateful  rays — they  sponge  in  the  warmth. 
Then  follows  the  long,  gloomy  day,  and  at  night  they  are 
herded  into  their  narrow,  cheerless  cells. 

They  never  get  out  of  the  alley,  save  for  a  bath,  and 
a  shave  once  each  week.  Their  food  is  carried  there  and 
served  to  them  individually.  Owing  to  the  distance  and 
the  delay  in  distribution,  it  is  usually  cold  when  they  get 
it. 

The  majority  of  the  fifty  men  who  were  brought  to 
San  Quentin  in  the  transfer  were  assigned  to  the  "hill." 
The  Legislature  had  appropriated  several  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  new  cell  buildings 
at  San  Quentin,  and  it  had  been  decided  that  a  good  part 
of  it  might  be  spent  with  profit  in  removing  a  large  hill  to 
the  south  of  the  prison. 

A  defunct  member  of  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Direct- 
ors, who  was  "out  of  a  job,"  was  appointed  "Superin- 
tendent of  Construction"  at  a  salary  of  $300  a  month. 
It  required  very  little  "superintending,"  for  two  hundred 
convicts  to  go  to  work  with  picks  and  shovels  and  wheel- 
barrows, and  all  I  ever  saw  him  do  was  sit  at  the  stove  in 
the  directors'  room  at  the  Warden's  office  and  smoke  ci- 


Donald  Lowrie  385 

gars.  His  graft  lasted  several  months  before  he  "lost 
out."  A  man  who  really  knew  something  about  such  work 
was  appointed  in  his  place,  and  at  less  than  half  the  sal- 
ary. The  $300  a  month  superintendency  was  one  of  the 
rawest  cases  of  graft  I  have  ever  known,  and  I  have  known 
many. 

Then  came  a  plot  for  escape.  Several  of  the  Folsom 
men  planned  to  make  a  "getaway"  by  water.  For  this 
purpose  they  surreptitiously  prepared  "patent"  rubber 
suits.  They  were  exposed  by  a  stool-pigeon  and  the  plot 
was  frustrated. 

Some  time  later  another  one  of  them  tried  to  sneak  off 
the  reservation  and  was  caught.  He  had  on  a  home-made 
suit  of  clothes  under  his  stripes.  He  had  made  over  a 
suit  of  canton  flannel  underwear,  dyed  it  with  inks,  and 
had  hoped  to  escape  the  vigilance  of  the  guards  in  the 
Gatling  gun  towers. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  facts  in  connection  with 
the  men  who  are  confined  at  San  Quentin  is  that  a  large 
percentage  of  them  are  ex-soldiers.  Quite  a  few  are  vet- 
erans of  the  Civil  War — but  their  number  is  decreasing 
rapidly-^-so  the  majority  are  men  who  have  served  in  the 
Philippines.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  service  in  the 
Philippines  generally  impairs  the  health  and  physique  of 
the  soldier,  and,  judging  from  the  number  who  have  been 
committed  to  San  Quentin  and  Folsom,  it  also  has  a  ten- 
dency to  break  down  their  moral  standards. 

In  a  way  the  Government  is  responsible  for  the  criminal 
lapses  of  its  discharged  soldiers.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
Philippine  trouble  young  men  were  enlisted  in  all  parts  of 
the  United  States  and  shipped  to  the  Orient.  After  two 
or  three  years'  service  in  the  enervating  climate  of  the 
Philippines,  with  all  the  demoralizing  influences  of  soldier 
life  and  all  the  unnatural  repressions  of  subordination, 
these  men  were  brought  back  to  the  States,  paid  off  and 


336  My  Life  in  Prison 

discharged  from  the  service  at  San  Francisco.  A  large 
percentage  of  them,  bursting  with  the  sense  of  freedom  to 
do  as  they  chose,  proceeded  to  "have  a  good  time."  Gen- 
erally this  "good  time"  lasted  until  they  were  broke,  and 
then  came  an  awakening  to  the  fact  that  they  were  strand- 
ed in  a  strange  city,  thousands  of  miles  from  home,  and 
without  prospects. 

Many  of  them  turned  to  crime  as  their  only  way  to 
keep  from  starving,  and  many  of  them  were  caught  and 
sentenced  to  prison.  In  fact,  crimes  by  ex-soldiers  became 
so  common  at  one  time  that  the  magistrates  inflicted  most 
severe  sentences  upon  those  who  were  caught  and  con- 
victed. And  yet  the  Government  continued  to  discharge 
Philippine  soldiers  at  San  Francisco,  and  does  to  this  day, 
I  believe.  It  is  always  a  serious  matter  for  a  young  man 
to  leave  the  place  of  his  nativity,  where  he  is  known,  and 
especially  so  for  young  men  whom  the  excitement  and 
adventure  of  army  service  lure  to  the  step. 

I  have  talked  with  dozens  of  young  convicts  who  have 

been  through  this  experience,  and  almost  to  a  man  the 

verdict  was :    "This  would  never  have  happened  to  me  had 

been  discharged  at  the  place  where  I  enlisted,  near  home." 

The  temptation  to  have  one  "fling"  in  a  strange  and 
enticing  city  proved  too  great  for  them  to  withstand.  I 
venture  to  say  that  there  would  be  200  less  convicts  in 
the  State  prisons  of  California — not  to  mention  the  pris- 
ons of  other  near-by  States — had  the  Government  trans- 
ported, its  soldiers  to  the  places  of  enlistment  before  dis- 
charging them. 

Many  of  these  ex-soldiers  draw  pensions,  especially  the 
veterans  of  the  Civil  War.  For  a  number  of  years  after 
I  entered  San  Quentin,  the  Rev.  August  Drahms,  himself 
a  veteran,  was  Notary  Public  at  the  prison,  and  used  to 
charge  each  man  25  cents  for  notary  service  each  quarter. 
He  also  used  to  charge  a  fee  of  one  dollar  for  witnessing 


Donald  Lowrle  837 

affidavits  pertaining  to  applications  for  pardon  or  com- 
mutation of  sentence.  His  rapacity  in  this  respect  finally 
led  to  action  on  the  part  of  the  State  Board  of  Prison 
Directors,  who  issued  an  order  that  no  prisoner  should 
ever  be  compelled  to  pay  notarial  charges.  Drahms  made 
a  fight  against  this  order,  but  without  suceeding  in  hav- 
ing it  rescinded. 

Among  the  veterans  of  the  Civil  War  whom  I  knew  at 
San  Quentin  were  several  Confederate  soldiers.  But  one 
of  the  Union  veterans,  "Old  Shang,"  was  a  particularly 
interesting  man.  He  was  a  "ten-time  loser"  the  last  time 
I  saw  him ;  i.  e.,  he  had  served  nine  previous  terms  either 
at  San  Quentin  or  Folsom.  He  had  practically  been  "do- 
ing life"  on  the  instalment  plan  since  the  close  of  the  war. 

"Shang's"  particular  weaknesses  were  "booze"  and 
horseflesh.  During  each  of  his  terms  of  imprisonment, 
which  were  always  comparatively  short,  his  pension  would 
accumulate,  and  when  his  term  expired  he  would  go  out 
and  get  gloriously  drunk.  Then  when  his  money  was  gone 
he  would  steal  the  first  horse  he  could  get  and  try  to  sell 
it. 

The  intervals  between  his  various  terms  were  very  short. 
After  stealing  a  horse  he  would  endeavor  to  sell  it  to  the 
first  person  he  met,  and  in  this  respect  he  seldom  exer- 
cised the  least  cunning  or  foresight.  I  remember  hearing 
him  tell  of  one  instance  of  the  kind  that  was  very  funny, 
especially  to  hear  him  tell  it.  He  had  been  discharged 
and  had  "drunk  up"  his  pension  at  San  Rafael,  only  three 
miles  from  the  prison. 

"It  was  the  old,  old  story,"  said  Shang.  "Out  only  a 
few  days,  dead  broke  and  so  thirsty  I  felt  like  a  sponge 
that  had  been  buried  with  an  Egyptian  mummy.  That 
night  I  decided  I'd  steal  a  hoss,  but  I  also  decided  that 
I  wouldn't  get  caught,  for  a  change.  So  I  hiked  out  of 
San  Rafael  toward  Petaluma,  and  about  midnight  I  came 


338  My  Life  in  Prison 

to  a  ranch  where  the  barn  was  some  distance  from  the 
house. 

"It  was  a  dark  night  and  awful  foggy,  and  everything 
was  so  still  you  could  hear  the  hosses  in  the  barn  thumpin' 
half  a  mile  away.  It  was  no  trick  to  crush  into  the  barn, 
and  the  first  hoss  I  laid  my  hands  on  was  a  pretty  good 
specimen  and  I  nailed  him.  I  got  a  saddle  and  bridle  and 
away  I  goes.  I  rode  all  night  in  the  dark  and  fog — must 
'a*  been  twenty  or  thirty  miles — and  along  toward  day- 
break I  came  to  a  ranch. 

"  'I'll  stop  here  and  get  breakfast,'  thinks  I,  and  I  did. 
They  treated  me  fine,  and  pretty  soon  I  hinted  that  I 
had  a  fine  hoss  I'd  like  to  sell.  The  rancher  had  an  eye 
to  business  right  away,  and  we  went  out  to  look  the  hoss 
over.  He  seemed  kind  of  surprised  at  first,  and  then  he 
offered  me  $75  for  him.  I  made  him  raise  to  $85,  and  then 
he  told  me  he  didn't  have  the  money  on  hand,  but  would 
hitch  up  and  we  could  drive  into  town  to  the  bank  and 
get  it.  I  said  all  right,  and  a  little  while  after  we  started. 
When  we  got  to  town  I  was  kind  of  surprised  to  find  it 
was  San  Rafael,  and  I  couldn't  understand  how  we'd  got 
there  so  quick.  We  stopped  at  the  bank  and  he  went  in- 
side. He'd  been  gone  about  five  minutes  when  I  saw  the 
Sheriff  coming  up  the  street. 

"  'Hello,  Sheriff,'  says  I,  as  he  got  near.  'Not  much 
doing  in  your  business  these  days.' 

"  'No,'  he  answers ;  'not  much ;  but  what  be  you  doing 
with  that  team?' 

"  'Oh,  this  team  belongs  to  Mr.  Sheridan,  a  particular 
friend  of  mine,  who  lives  out  country  a  bit.  We  just 
drove  in  on  a  little  pleasure  jaunt  this  morning.  He's 
in  the  bank  getting  some  dough  to  entertain  me  on  in 
town.  You  known  Mr.  Sheridan.  Sheriff?' 

"  'Yes,  Chang,'  says  the  Sheriff,  'I  do  know  Mr.  Sheri- 


Donald  Lowrie  339 

dan.  He  just  telephoned  me  to  come  down  and  get  you 
for  stealin'  one  of  his  hosses.' 

"  'Stealin'  one  of  his  hosses?'  says  I.  'Why,  I'm  selling 
him  a  hoss.' 

"  'Yes,  I  know,'  says  the  Sheriff,  'but  it  just  happens  it's 
his  own  hoss  you're  trying  to  sell  him.  Hop  out,  Shang, 
old  boy,  and  come  to  your  old  cell  in  the  County  Jail.' 

"I  tried  to  talk  out  of  it.  I  couldn't  understand  the 
situation  at  all,  but  he  wouldn't  listen.  And,  sure  enough, 
they  had  me  dead  right.  Do  you  know  what  I'd  done? 
I'd  yaffled  that  hoss  and  then  rode  around  that  ranch  all 
night  in  the  fog,  and  when  morning  came  I  tried  to  sell 
the  hoss  to  the  very  man  it  belonged  to.  Wouldn't  that 
make  your  hair  curl  sideways? 

"At  first  I  wouldn't  believe  it  myself,  but  when  the  old 
judge  said  'three  years'  I  had  to  admit  that  as  a  crook  I 
was  a  mutt — and,  what's  more,  I've  never  changed  that 
opinion.  That  was  twenty  years  ago,  and  I've  done  sev- 
eral bits  since  then. 

"But  that  ain't  all,"  added  Old  Shang,  a  sparkle  of 
mischief  coming  into  his  small  gray  eyes,  "that  ain't  all 
by  a  long  shot.  When  I  got  that  three  years  in  do  you 
know  what  I  done?  I  went  right  back  and  stole  that  same 
hoss,  and  you  can  bet  your  suspender  buckles  that  I 
waited  for  a  moonlight  night  to  do  it.  I  got  $40  for  him 

in  San  .  Oh,  never  mind  where — and  I  never  had 

more  pleasure  in  my  life  than  I  had  drinking  up  that  hoss. 
There  was  a  big  crowd  in  the  saloon  where  I  spent  the 
dough,  and  I  guess  they  must  have  all  thought  I  was 
bughouse,  for  every  time  I'd  call  them  up  to  the  bar  I'd 
say: 

"  'Come  on  boys ;  let's  slop  up  on  his  hoofs,'  or  'lets 
guzzle  his  tail,'  or  'let's  see  how  his  bloomin*  ears  taste.' 
Say,  it  was  great. 

"At  one  stage  of  the  proceedings  I  was  kinder  slow  be- 


340  My  Life  in  Prison 

tween  drinks — got  to  studying  on  what  a  fine,  artistic 
specimen  of  humanity  the  bartender  was,  or  something 
like  that — I've  forgot  just  what — when  up  pipes  a  geezer 
at  one  of  the  tables  and  says : 

"  *I  don't  know  who  the  party  is  we've  been  drinking 
up,  but  with  hoofs  and  a  tail  I've  got  my  suspicions — and 
say,  I  move  that  we  finish  him.  Let's  see  what  his  bleedin* 
heart  tastes  like.' 

"So  we  all  lined  up  once  more,  and  everybody  took 
Dago  Red." 

Poor  old  Shang.  He  spent  nearly  his  entire  manhood 
behind  prison  bars.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  tot- 
tering eagerly  toward  the  front  gate.  His  tenth  "jolt" 
had  been  for  five  years  and  it  had  finished  him. 

The  fact  that  clothing  is  taken  from  incoming  prisoners 
and  given  to  other  prisoners  about  to  be  discharged  gives 
rise  to  an  interesting  feature  of  the  parole  system.  The 
parole  law,  passed  in  1893,  empowers  the  State  Board 
of  Prison  Directors  to  make  rules  and  regulations  under 
which  any  prisoner,  other  than  those  committed  for  life, 
may  be  paroled  after  he  shall  have  served  one  calendar 
year  of  the  term  for  which  he  has  been  committed,  and 
life  prisoners  after  they  shall  have  served  seven  calendar 
years,  at  the  board's  discretion. 

The  "rules  and  regulations"  established  by  the  State 
Board  of  Prison  Directors,  pursuant  to  this  law,  are, 
briefly,  that  no  application  for  parole  shall  be  considered 
until  the  applicant  shall  have  served  one-half  of  his  net 
sentence  and  has  a  perfect  prison  record  for  at  least  six 
consecutive  months  immediately  preceding  the  considera- 
tion of  his  case;  that  he  shall  have  advertised  his  inten- 
tion to  apply  for  parole  in  a  newspaper  of  general  cir- 
culation in  the  county  where  his  conviction  occurred ;  tha? 
he  shall  have  employment  assured  him,  by  affidavit,  from 
some  responsible  person ;  that  he  shall  prepare  a  biograph- 


Donald  Lowrie  341 

ical  sketch  of  his  life  from  boyhood;  that  he  shall  fur- 
nish his  own  clothing  and  transportation,  and  that  he  shall 
leave  a  deposit  of  $25*  in  the  hands  of  the  prison  Warden 
for  the  purpose  of  defraying  any  expense  which  may  be 
incurred  in  returning  him  to  prison  for  infraction  of  the 
regulations  governing  his  parole.  Also  that  it  shall  re- 
quire the  affirmative  vote  of  four  members  of  the  board 
to  make  a  parole  legal.  The  board  consists  of  five  mem- 
bers, three  of  whom  constitute  a  quorum  for  the  transac- 
tion of  all  financial  or  other  business.  Three  members  of 
the  board  may  revoke  a  parole  and  forfeit  a  prisoner's 
credits,  but  it  requires  four  members  to  grant  a  parole. 

Taking  up  these  rules  and  regulations  in  the  order  of 
their  citation,  we  have,  first,  that  no  prisoner  shall  be 
paroled  until  he  shall  have  served  one-half  of  his  net  sen- 
tence. This  rule  is  arbitrary  and  works  many  injustices. 
One  of  the  purposes  of  the  parole  law  is  to  rectify  uneven 
or  excessive  sentences.  It  is  a  well-established  fact  that 
many  judges  impose  sentences  entirely  out  of  keeping  with 
the  nature  of  the  offence  and  the  character  of  the  delin- 
quent. It  is  a  regular  occurrence  to  see  a  professional 
crook,  a  three  or  four  time  loser,  arrive  at  the  prison 
under  sentence  of  three  or  four  years,  and  the  same  stage 
deliver  a  boy,  a  first  offender,  with  ten,  fifteen,  even 
twenty  years.  The  board  of  directors  say  that  each  of 
these  prisoners  must  serve  "half  time"  before  they  can  be 
paroled. 

By  requiring  the  applicant  to  advertise  his  intention  of 
asking  for  parole  the  way  is  opened  for  enemies  or  preju- 
diced persons  to  protest  against  his  having  it.  I  have 
known  of  instances  where  legacies  or  other  money  matters 
were  involved  to  such  an  extent  that  it  was  to  the  interest 
of  persons  in  the  outside  world  to  keep  certain  men  in 
prison.  This  advertisement  gives  them  the  opportunity 

*  This  rule  was  abolished  by  the  Board  of  Directors  at  the 
close  of  the  year  1911. 


342  My  Life  in  Prison 

to  keep  posted  and  to  protest  against  the  parole  of  the 
individual  whom  they  are  interested  in  keeping  out  of  the 
way. 

By  requiring  the  applicant  to  have  employment  assured 
him  before  his  application  will  be  considered  it  becomes 
necessary  for  the  man  to  get  employment  in  advance.  This 
means  that  a  prisoner  must  secure  employment  two  or 
three  months  in  advance  of  the  time  when  he  shall,  per- 
haps, be  permitted  to  take  it.  How  many  business  men 
are  there  who  can  assure  a  man  a  position  two  or  three 
months  hence? 

And  quite  frequently,  after  a  prisoner  has  secured  such 
employment,  upon  appearing  before  the  board  of  direc- 
tors for  his  "second  trial"  his  application  is  "postponed" 
for  six  months,  or  a  year.  It  is  very  seldom  that  the  per- 
son who  is  willing  to  give  him  work  can  arrange  to  hold 
the  place  open,  which  means  that  the  prisoner  must  seek 
and  secure  other  employment  before  his  case  will  be  heard 
again.  I  have  endeavored  to  fathom  the  justice  or  logic 
in  this  rule,  but  I  am  unable  to  do  so.  It  always  seemed 
to  me  that  it  would  be  more  logical  to  parole  prisoners 
on  merit,  on  their  good  record  while  in  confinement,  and 
with  the  understanding  that  they  shall  not  leave  the  pris- 
on until  they  secure  suitable  employment. 

This  system  would  enable  a  man  to  go  to  such  work 
as  he  might  be  able  to  get  without  delay.  Under  the 
present  system  it  is  almost  impossible  for  many  of  the 
men  to  get  the  necessary  employment  affidavit,  and  quite 
frequently,  simply  in  order  to  permit  the  prisoner  to  get 
out.,  persons  sign  employment  agreements  charitably — an 
injustice  to  the  prisoner  as  well  as  to  the  people  of  the 
State. 

Regarding  the  "biographical  sketch,"  perhaps  it  is  a 
sensible  rule,  Hut  I  know  of  a  number  of  instances  where 
men  have  remained  in  prison  and  served  out  their  full  term 


Donald  Lowrie  343 

rather  than  disclose  the  names  and  addresses  of  their  rela- 
tives or  former  employers. 

By  requiring  the  prisoner  to  furnish  his  own  clothing 
and  transportation,  and  leave  a  deposit  of  $25,  still 
greater  obstacles  are  placed  in  his  path.  Prisoners  who 
serve  out  their  terms  and  are  discharged  are  furnished  with 
clothing  by  the  State,  but  a  paroled  prisoner  must  fur- 
nish his  own.  This  is  a  decided  anomaly.  If  the  theory  of 
parole  is  to  get  men  back  to  right  living  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  State  should  be  willing  to  spend  a  few  dollars  to 
accomplish  it. 

Statistics  prove  that  the  paroling  of  prisoners  is  a  mat- 
ter of  economy,  morally  as  well  as  politically.  Several 
hundred  of  the  two  thousand  men  now  confined  at  San 
Quentin,  and  an  equal  quota  of  those  confined  at  Folsom, 
might  just  as  well  be  learning  to  be  good  citizens,  earn- 
ing their  own  living,  as  be  costing  the  State  many  thou- 
sands of  dollars  a  year  by  being  kept  in  prison. 

In  many  instances  men  who  at  the  time  of  their  arrival 
have  worn  clothing  which  was  of  sufficient  worth  for  the 
State  to  appropriate  and  give  to  discharged  prisoners, 
thus  saving  the  cost  of  a  new  suit,  are  unable  to  get  the 
funds  for  parole  clothing,  and  remain  in  prison  as-  a  con- 
sequence. If  they  become  embittered  and  feel  that  society 
has  wronged  them,  who  shall  say  that  they  are  not  justi- 
fied? 

The  $25  which  a  paroled  prisoner  is  required  to  leave 
as  a  deposit  is  forfeited  to  the  State  as  soon  as  the  pa- 
roled man  is  declared  a  violator.  No  matter  if  it  only  re- 
quires a  dollar  or  two  to  bring  him  back  to  the  prison  from 
San  Francisco,  or  some  other  nearby  place,  the  entire  $25 
is  forfeited. 

These  requirements  prevent  many  worthy  men  from  tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  opportunity  which  the  law  affords 
for  their  rehabilitation.  The  cost  of  parole  ranges  from 


344  My  Life  In  Prison 

$50  to  $75,  according  to  the  locality  to  which  the  pa- 
roled prisoner  must  go  to  fulfill  his  employment  pact.  A 
prisoner  who  has  been  confined  for  years,  working  every 
day  without  pay,  and  who  is  unable  to  raise  $50,  cannot 
have  the  same  chance  as  the  man  who  has  money,  or  friends 
who  will  supply  it  for  him.  And  even  the  men  who  are 
fortunate  enough  to  have  such  friends  must  start  out  in 
debt — an  added  hardship  to  an  already  over-burdened 
man. 

It  has  been  claimed  that  this  expense  feature  of  the 
parole  regulations  tends  to  prevent  unworthy  and  unde- 
sirable men  from  securing  the  benefits  of  parole.  But  this 
resolves  itself  into  the  unwritten  and  unspoken  slogan  of 
our  present  age  of  commercialism — to  be  poor  is  a  crime ; 
a  poor  man  is  no  good. 

Many  good  persons,  learning  of  these  obstacles  in  the 
path  of  the  friendless  prisoner,  have  taken  a  personal  in- 
terest and  have  supplied  the  necessary  funds  to  scores  of 
individual  prisoners,  and  it  is  gratifying  to  know  that  in 
the  majority  of  cases  the  beneficiaries  have  "made  good" 
and  have  repaid  the  loan.  At  the  same  time  there  have 
been  ingrates. 

Viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  the  prisoner,  of  the 
down-and-outer,  these  rules  and  regulations  are  eminently 
unjust.  I  feel  that  way  about  it.  If  the  law  says  I  may 
have  a  chance  to  prove  that  I  want  to  redeem  myself  I 
do  not  think  it  is  right  that  I  should  have  to  pay  for  the 
opportunity,  nor  do  I  think  it  right  that  some  other  per- 
son should  help  me  to  pay  for  this  privilege  by  loaning 
me  the  money  necessary  under  the  rules. 

But,  to  be  fair,  I  am  thoroughlv  convinced  that  at  least 
three  members  of  the  present  Board  of  Prison  Direct- 
ors are  not  in  sympathy  with  these  rules.  It  is  seldom 
that  the  five  members  of  the  board  get  together;  usually 
only  four  attend  the  meetings,  sometimes  only  three.  One 


Donald  Lowrie  345 

of  the  rules  governing  parole  is  that  it  shall  require  the 
affirmative  vote  of  four  members  to  suspend  or  change  the 
rules,  which  virtually  amounts  to  a  one-man  power.  The 
prisoners  feel  the  injustice  of  this.  The  present  admin- 
istration of  the  parole  law  serves  to  defeat  the  purpose 
of  the  law. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

But,  although  the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors  have 
rules  governing  applications  for  parole,  they  "suspend" 
these  rules  whenever  policy  seems  to  demand  it,  and  it  is 
the  poor  and  friendless  prisoners  who  suffer.  Of  course, 
the  half  time  rule  is  a  usurpation,  an  assumption  of  self- 
righteous  wisdom  transcending  that  of  the  representatives 
of  the  people  who  enacted  the  parole  law  and  infused  it 
with  a  spirit  of  sound  common  sense  by  providing  that 
any  prisoner,  save  one  serving  life,  may  be  paroled  at  the 
end  of  one  year  if  his  prison  record  has  been  good. 

But  after  having  circumvented  the  intent  and  spirit  of 
this  law,  the  directors  have  been  inconsistent  by  releasing 
favored  prisoners  on  parole  before  they  have  served  half 
time.  It  must  be  understood,  however,  that  this  half  time 
rule  and  other  parole  regulations  do  not  represent  the 
'desires  or  the  judgment  of  all  of  the  present  members  of 
the  board.  These  rules  and  regulations  were  framed  and 
adopted  by  the  board  as  it  existed  several  years  ago.  The 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  change  or  modification  is  that  one 
of  the  members,  possibly  two,  are  holdovers  from  the 
original  board,  and  oppose  new  rules. 

One  member  of  the  board  who  is  not  in  sympathy  with 
the  half  time  regulation  has  consistently  objected  to  its 
"suspension"  on  every  occasion  that  has  arisen,  not  be- 
cause he  believes  that  prisoners  should  be  kept  in  confine- 
ment until  they  have  served  half  time  before  being  grante'd 

346 


"Donald  Lowrie  347 

parole,  but  because  he  has  hoped  to  force  a  change  of  the 
rule  by  making  the  members  of  the  board  who  are  re- 
sponsible live  up  to  it.  But  the  half  time  rule  still  stands, 
and  exceptions  are  still  being  made  to  it. 

Personally,  I  know  a  great  many  prisoners  who  should 
not  be  compelled  to  serve  half  time ;  also  I  know  some  who 
should  be  compelled  to  serve  more  than  half  time  because 
their  daily  life  and  actions  in  prison  clearly  indicate  that 
they  would  not  honor  the  restraints  which  parole  would 
impose  upon  them. 

Again,  even  after  having  served  half  time  with  a  per- 
fect prison  record,  many  prisoners  are  arbitrarily  refused 
a  trial  on  parole.  They  appear  before  the  board,  reply 
to  all  questions  faithfully — even  questions  verging  on  in- 
sult, such  as  would  not  be  tolerated  in  a  courtroom — and 
are  then  denied  parole  without  any  reason  being  given 
for  such  denial.  A  man  who  has  obeyed  all  the  prison 
rules  and  worked  faithfully  for  years,  looking  forward 
to  the  day  when  he  shall  have  served  half  time  as  the  date 
when  he  will  get  a  chance  to  prove  his  sincerity  and  re- 
deem himself,  certainly  cannot  feel  very  charitable,  nor 
have  much  respect  for  a  body  of  men  who  see  him  for  a 
few  minutes  and  then  arbitrarily  tell  him  that  he  cannot 
have  a  parole. 

In  my  opinion  the  resident  officers  of  the  prison  should 
be  the  ones  to  decide  when  a  prisoner  is  fit  for  trial  on 
parole,  which,  of  course,  connotes  that  such  officers  must 
be  men  of  the  highest  character  and  intelligence,  and  which 
also  necessitates  a  different  internal  prison  management. 
The  board  of  directors  of  an  insane  asylum  or  a  hospital 
do  not  assume  to  say  when  the  patients  shall  be  discharged. 
They  don't  know  anything  about  the  patients  individually, 
and  even  if  the  patients  were  brought  before  them  one  by 
one  they  would  not  be  qualified  to  assume  the  responsibil- 
ity of  saying  which  were  convalescent  and  which  were  in- 


348  My  Life  in  Prison 

curable.     But  the  officers,  the  doctors  in  charge,  should 
know,  and  do  know. 

And  when  a  man  who  has  been  brought  before  the  State 
Board  of  Prison  directors  and  denied  parole,  after  hav- 
ing served  half  time,  according  to  their  rule,  and  with 
a  perfect  prison  record,  sees  another  prisoner  who  has 
not  served  half  time,  and  whose  prison  record  has  not 
been  good,  but  who  has  the  right  kind  of  extraneous  in- 
fluence, granted  that  which  he  has  been  denied,  who  can 
blame  him  for  becoming  bitter  and  holding  the  law  in  con- 
tempt? What  would  you  feel  under  similar  circumstan- 
ces? What  would  any  member  of  the  board  of  directors 
feel  were  he  a  prisoner  and  doomed  to  pass  through  such 
an  experience? 

Concrete  instances  of  both  kinds  could  be  cited  by  the 
score,  but  one  case,  that  of  a  man  serving  twenty-five  years 
who  has  twice  appeared  before  the  board  and  had  his  ap- 
plication postponed  for  two  years  each  time,  will  illus- 
trate the  injustice  and  inconsistency  as  well  as  any  other. 
This  man  is  known  as  G — — ,  and  has  been  in  charge  of 
one  of  the  departments  of  the  prison  laundry  for  five  or 
six  years.  He  first  entered  San  Quentin  as  a  boy,  served 
a  short  term,  and  was  discharged  with  the  customary  $5 
and  cheap  clothing.  Of  course,  a  man  discharged  from 
prison  needs  two  suits  of  underwear,  and  if  he  has  any 
self-respect  he  also  wants  a  suit  of  clothes  in  place  of 
that  furnished  him ;  he  feels  that  the  prison  brand  is  upon 
him  so  long  as  he  wears  the  shoddy  clothing  which  the 
State  has  furnished  him.  But  he  has  to  eat  and  sleep, 
and  that  costs  money.  Five  dollars  doesn't  go  far  when 
it  is  all  a  man  has  save  the  clothes  on  his  back. 

G found  it  that  way,  and  when  in  absolute  want 

j  oine'd  another  man  in  a  robbery.    G was  caught  and 

sentenced  to  twenty-five  years  at  San  Quentin.    Under  tfie 
Goodwin  act  twenty-five  years  means  fifteen  years  and 


Donald  Lowrie  349 

three  months  if  the  prisoner's  behavior  is  good.  So,  in 

G 's  case,  "half  time"  amounted  to  seven  years  and 

eight  months.  G has  the  capacity  for  making  friends 

— his  very  earnestness  in  everything  he  undertakes  makes 
people  like  him — and  at  the  approach  of  his  half  time  he 
was  urged  to  apply  for  parole. 

The  board  heard  his  case,  tried  him  over  again  for  the 
robbery,  and  postponed  action  on  the  application  for  two 

years.  G went  back  to  the  laundry  and  resumed 

his  duty  at  the  mangle,  at  which  work  he  is  expert.  When 
the  two  years  rolled  around  outside  friends  exerted  them- 
selves, and  after  considerable  effort  succeeded  in  getting 

G a  position  in  a  laundry.  One  of  the  directors  had 

become  interested  in  the  case,  but  was  unable  to  attend 
the  meeting  at  which  it  was  heard.  So  he  addressed  a 
communication  to  the  other  members  of  the  board,  urging 

them  to  give  G a  chance.  It  happened,  however,  that 

this  member  of  the  board  was  at  loggerheads  with  one  of 
the  other  members,  and  this  other  member  blocked  the 
parole.  It  may  be  a  surprise  to  many  that  one  member  of 
the  board  has  it  in  his  power  to  prevent  the  parole  of  a 
prisoner,  but  such  is  the  case.  It  is  a  one-man  power, 
pure  and  simple,  as  I  have  seen  demonstrated  time  and 
time  again. 

So  G went  back  to  his  mangle  once  more,  and  he 

is  working  at  it  yet.  He  has  now  served  ten  years — more 
than  a  life  termer  is  required  to  serve  before  becoming 
eligible  for  parole;  more  time  than  was  served  by  Frank 
D ,  whose  case  I  cited  in  a  previous  chapter.  To  em- 
phasize the  contrast,  however,  Frank  D killed  his 

wife  in  cold  blood,  was  sentenced  to  hang,  received  a  com- 
mutation to  imprisonment  for  life,  and  was  paroled  at  the 
end  of  nine  years. 

Of  course,  the  persons  who  were  willing  to  give  employ- 
ment cannot  hold  the  position  open  for  him  indefinitely, 


350  My  Life  in  Prison 

and,  of  course,  they  are  justified  in  thinking  that  G ! 

was  denied  parole  because  he  is  a  bad  man.  Not  being 
conversant  with  the  system,  what  else  can  they  think? 

This  means  that  when  G 's  case  is  again  considered 

he  must  hustle  for  another  position — hustle  from  behind 
prison  walls,  and  in  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  world, 
owing  to  his  long  confinement. 

If  this  is  a  logical  interpretation  of  the  parole  law  there 
must  be  something  wrong  with  my  mind  and  with  the 
minds  of  thousands  of  other  men  who  have  suffered  these 
humiliations.  If  the  theory  of  parole  is  to  redeem  men 
then  it  is  the  duty  of  the  State  to  start  the  beneficiary 
under  the  best  possible  auspices  and  to  make  him  feel 
that  his  salvation  means  something  to  the  State. 

Eighty-five  per  cent,  of  the  men  who  have  been  paroled 
from  the  prisons  in  this  State  have  made  good.  Of  the  fif- 
teen per  cent,  who  have  violated  parole  less  than  two  per 
cent,  have  committed  other  crimes.  Of  the  men  who  are 
discharged  at  the  expiration  of  sentence  about  forty  per 
cent,  are  returned  to  prison  in  this  or  some  other  State, 
and  for  new  crimes.  Many  of  this  forty  per  cent,  could 
be  redeemed  were  the  parole  rules  less  drastic  and  were 
not  the  last  drop  of  blood  exacted  from  them  by  making 
them  serve  out  their  terms  to  the  last  minute.  In  fair- 
ness to  everyone,  should  not  these  absurd  regulations  be 
abolished  ? 

Quite  a  number  of  men  have  been  returned  to  San  Quen- 
tin  for  violating  parole  in  what  may  be  termed  a  minor 
way.  They  have  indulged  in  intoxicating  liquor,  left  their 
employment,  or  committed  some  other  minor  offence,  neg- 
ative or  positive.  In  every  instance,  whether  serving  two 
years  or  twenty,  all  credits  have  been  taken  from  fhem. 
Under  the  theory  that  parole  is  for  the  purpose  of  recla- 
mation, why  should  not  some  of  these  men  be  given  a  sec- 
ond chance? 


Donald  Lowrie  351] 

Primarily,  parole  is  to  test  a  man,  not  to  prove  him,  and 
the  very  fact  that  some  men  fail  to  "keep"  parole  is  a 
justification  of  the  parole  system.  I  know  a  number  of 
men  who  I  am  sure  will  ultimately  redeem  themselves,  and 
I  believe  the  time  will  come  when  a  parole  violator  will 
not  be  regarded  wholly  as  a  subject  for  punishment. 
Rather,  he  will  be  looked  upon  as  one  who  needs  help  and 
encouragement.  Surely,  if  the  object  of  prisons  is  to 
protect  society,  the  reclamation  of  the  wrongdoer  should 
be  the  major  consideration.  Either  that  or  he  should  be 
kept  in  prison  for  life.  And,  surely,  the  harder  it  is  to 
get  a  maverick  into  the  herd  the  greater  the  satisfaction 
and  merit  in  its  accomplishment. 

There  is  a  Chinaman,  called  "Spot,"  at  San  Quentin  who 
has  the  distinction  of  being  the  only  Chinaman  who  has 
broken  parole.  Still,  according  to  his  story,  he  was  mere- 
ly trying  to  survive.  He  left  his  employment  in  Califor- 
nia, which  was  very  unremunerative,  and  went  to  Alaska 
for  the  fishing  season  without  permission.  When  he  got 
back  he  was  arrested  and  returned  to  San  Quentin. 

"I  workum  hard,  I  come  back,  pinchum  me  heap  quick," 
is  the  way  he  tells  it. 

As  a  rule,  the  Chinese  are  good  prisoners  and  "make 
good"  on  parole.  Quite  recently  the  Board  of  Directors 
paroled  two  prisoners  who  had  been  out  on  parofe  befora 
and  had  been  brought  back  for  violation.  For  violation  of 
parole  a  prisoner  is  deprived  of  all  credits,  and  these  two 
men,  serving  twenty  and  twenty-five  years,  respectively, 
are  now  serving  their  credit  periods  on  parole.  Had  they 
not  violated  parole  they  would  have  been  discharged  some 
time  ago. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  a  splendid  application  of  the 
parole  law.  The  theory  of  parole,  as  I  understand  it, 
is  to  reclaim  the  law-breaker  and  make  him  a  good  citi- 
zen. This  being  so,  it  is  logical  that  the  efforts  at  recla- 


My  Life  in  Prison 

mation  should  be  carried  to  the  last  ditch.  I  believe  "Spot" 
should  have  a  second  opportunity.  He  did  not  do  any- 
thing vicious,  he  did  not  break  the  law;  he  merely  went 
to  work  outside  of  his  prison  (the  State  of  California) 
without  permission. 

An  incident  will  illustrate  the  attitude  held  by  a  certain 
grade  of  officials  in  this  matter. 

One  day  an  officer  called  Chaplain  Drahms  into  the  of- 
fice to  show  him  the  "scrapbook."  I  was  in  the  next  room 
and  could  not  help  hearing  all  that  was  said.  The  "scrap- 
book"  contains  the  photographs  of  parole  violators  from 
other  States,  and  at  that  time  it  contained  probably  a 
thousand  pictures — an  imposing  array,  well  calculated  to 
give  the  superficial  observer  an  erroneous  impression  of  the 
parole  system.  Seeing  a  thousand  photographs  of  parole 
violators  assembled  in  one  book,  page  after  page  of  them. 
is  bound  to  create  the  impression  that  the  parole  system 
is  a  failure,  especially  if  this  book  is  considered  alone.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  however,  it  represented  parole  violators 
from  twenty  or  more  States  during  the  past  ten  years. 

The  chaplain  became  very  much  excited. 

"My,  but  I'm  glad  you  showed  me  this,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Why,  they  must  all  break  their  parole.  It's  outrage- 
ous. It's  time  to  stop  this  sentimental  folly." 

"It's  only  a  gang  of  cranks,  that  stick  up  for  such 
nonsense,"  observed  the  Lieutenant,  gloatingly. 

"Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Drahms,  "and  we  must  try  to  do 
something  to  stop  it.  I'm  glad  you  showed  me  this.  More 
than  a  thousand  of  them !  Good  gracious !" 

At  this  juncture  I  began  to  whistle  and  then  stepped 
into  the  room.  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  looking  upon 
two  faces  that  were  covered  with  guilt.  I  tried  to  see 
the  matter  from  their  point  of  view.  I  could  understand 
the  Lieutenant's.  He  feared  that  a  liberal  application 


Donald  Lowrie  353 

of  the  parole  law  would  reduce  the  population  of  the  pris- 
on and  lessen  the  need  for  prison  officers. 

Each  prisoner  at  San  Quentin  has  a  number,  which  is 
marked  on  his  clothing  in  indelible  ink  and  which  also  ap- 
pears in  his  photograph.  These  numbers  run  consecu- 
tiveJy,  and  the  same  number  is  never  used  more  than  once. 
At  present  the  numbers  are  in  the  twenty-five  thousands, 
which  means  that  more  than  25,000  prisoners  have  been 
confined  at  San  Quentin.  The  numbers  at  Folsom  are  in 
the  nine  thousands,  I  believe.  > 

It  was  not  until  the  year  1888,  or  thereabouts,  that 
photographs  were  taken  of  prisoners,  but  since  that  time 
there  has  been  quite  an  accumulation  of  pictures.  All  save 
one  or  two  of  the  prisoners  who  have  been  received  since 
the  photograph  record  was  installed  have  their  photo- 
graphs— front  view  and  profile,  hat  on  and  hat  off,  in 
citizen's  clothing  and  in  stripes,  pasted  in  the  albums,  each 
with  its  respective  number  underneath. 

I  have  said  that  this  record  contains  the  photographs 
of  "all  save  one  or  two"  prisoners.  If  I  remember  cor- 
rectly, there  are  two  places  in  the  albums  which  are  blank. 
At  any  rate,  I  am  sure  there  is  one  place,  and  the  reason 
is  interesting.  The  prisoner  arrived  at  San  Quentin  all 
fight,  and  his  name  appears  on  the  register,  but  he  was 
never  photographed.  He  had  a  ten-year  sentence,  and 
served  it  in  ten  minutes.  As  he  stepped  inside  the  prison 
walls  he  reached  into  his  pocket  and  then  put  his  hand  to 
his  mouth.  Ten  minutes  later  he  was  dead.  The  deputy 
sheriff  who  had  him  in  charge  insisted  on  getting  a  re- 
ceipt, claiming  that  he  had  delivered  the  prisoner  alive. 
So  the  man's  name  and  crime  had  to  go  on  the  records — 
and  he  died  as  a  convict  at  San  Quentin,  even  though  he 
never  wore  stripes  or  suffered  having  his  hair  cropped. 

In  the  desire  for  vengeance  so  many  persons  imagine 
that  a  prisoner  must  suffer  actual  incarceration  for  years 


354  My  Life  in  Prison 

and  years  in  order  that  he  may  feel  the  disgrace  and  hum- 
iliation they  hunger  to  have  him  feel.  Of  course,  there 
are  many  prisoners  who  do  not  mind  the  disgrace  of  con- 
^viction  and  the  loss  of  social  standing — all  they  care  about 
^is  the  actual  confinement  of  their  bodies.  But  some  men 
suffer  more  poignantly  over  the  shame  than  over  the  phy- 
sical punishment.  The  iron  sears  into  the  soul  of  such  a 
man  long  before  he  dons  stripes  and  becomes  a  number 
living  in  a  cell.  I  have  known  scores  of  such  men.  Yet 
the  majority  of  persons  think  that  a  man  must  be  re- 
duced to  the  physical  life  of  a  brute  before  he  suffers.  The 
other  night  I  heard  Judge  Frick  of  Oakland  address  a 
meeting.  He  declared  that  he  was  strongly  in  favor  of 
probation  for  first  offenders  wherever  the  circumstances 
permit. 

"Some  persons  say  that  probation  is  a  menace,  because 
it  will  encourage  another  person  to  commit  crime,"  said 
the  Judge,  "but  let  me  show  you  how  absurd  that  is.  We'll 
suppose  your  next-door  neighbor  is  arrested  for  embez- 
zlement or  forgery,  or  any  other  crime.  Immediately  he 
is  disgraced  and  dishonored.  His  home  is  invaded  by  the 
police,  his  picture  and  the  circumstances  appear  in  the 
papers,  his  family  is  humiliated,  many  of  his  friends  for- 
sake him,  and  before  he  can  be  placed  on  probation  he 
must  either  be  convicted  or  plead  guilty.  Very  well.  Now, 
would  you  feel  encouraged  to  commit  a  crime  and  go 
through  this  kind  of  an  ordeal?  Of  course  you  would 
not." 

The  Judge  drew  the  picture  much  more  graphically 
than  I  have,  and  it  impressed  his  hearers  very  deeply. 

The  next  morning  I  sat  in  the  office  of  a  man  who  is 
striving  with  all  his  might  to  live  up  to  the  doctrine,  "Do 
unto  others  as  you  would  have  others  do  unto  you."  For 
conscientiously  and  earnestly  trying  to  live  and  apply 
jthis  Christ  law  this  man  has  suffered,  and  is  suffering 


Donald  Lowrie  355 

daily,  crucifixion.  For  years  and  years  he  was  a  hunter 
— a  man  hunter — an  unmerciful,  implacable,  blood-lust- 
ing Tiger.  During  the  years  that  he  manifested  in  that 
way  he  was  popular  with  the  public,  he  received  the  plau- 
dits of  the  crowd,  and  after  a  particularly  exciting  hunt 
for  big  game,  resulting  in  the  cornering  of  one  exhausted, 
heart-broken  human  rabbit,  the  plaudits  resounded  more 
loudly  than  ever.  It  made  no  difference  that  the  larger 
game  had  escaped — a  rabbit  had  been  caught.  Up  with 
the  thumbs !  Death  to  the  rabbit !  It  had  been  a  bad  rab- 
bit; it  had  invaded  the  public  garden,  emboldened  by  the 
larger  game.  So  the  rabbit  was  brought  in  and  held  up 
by  the  ears,  while  the  hounds  jumped  and  snapped  for 
its  life. 

And  then  after  it  was  all  over,  after  the  rabbit  had 
been  cast  into  prison,    this    man,    who    had    bayed    and 
strained  with  the  rest,  had  a  revulsion  of  feeling.     Sud- 
denly it  came  upon  him  that  the  rabbit  had  died  a  million 
deaths  while  it  was  being  run  to  earth — it  had  suffered 
more  in  the  agony  of  anticipating  its  death  than  it  could 
ever  suffer  in  the  death  itself.     So  this  hunter  began  to 
feel  something  strange  for  a  hunter — sympathy  for  the 
thing  he  had  hunted.     And  then,  when  he  put  himself  in 
the  rabbit's  place,  he  saw  himself  as  he  really  was — his 
naked  soul  was  covered  with  muddy-red  blotches  of  hate, 
revenge  and  blood  lust.     With  horrified  eyes  he  looked  at 
himself,  endeavoring  to  see  beneath  the  blotches,  hoping, 
praying  that  he  might  catch  just  one  faint  glimmer  of 
that  light  which  discloses  the  soul  as  divine.     At  last  he 
saw  it.     The  discovery  almost  unnerved  him.     He  had 
found  that  he  was  really  human  and  not  a  self-righteous 
god.     Immediately  he  was  filled  with  a  great  desire  to  let 
others  know  what  it  felt  like  to  be  really  human.     So  he 
forgave  the  rabbit  the  wrong  it  had  done,  and  he  deter- 


856  My  Life  in  Prison 

mined  that  he  would  try  to  make  other  "gods"  forgive, 
too. 

But  when  the  rest  of  the  hunters  learned  of  it  they 
were  aghast !  What !  Let  the  rabbit  go  before  it  had 
suffered  some  more — lots — lots  more?  Impossible!  Had 
not  this  rabbit  violated  the  public  garden,  and  were  there 
not  other  rabbits  who  were  just  as  much  entitled  to  go 
free  as  this  rabbit?  "Yes,"  said  the  ex-hunter;  "yes,  the 
other  rabbits  should  go,  too,  so  long  as  they'll  behave,  but 
I  didn't  help  to  hunt  them.  I'm  anxious  to  help  my  rabbit, 
the  one  I  helped  to  exhaust  and  corner,  because  I,  too,  was 
a  rabbit — you  are  rabbits — and  rabbits  were  not  meant 
to  judge  rabbits." 

But  all  this  went  over  the  rabbit  ears,  even  though  the 
ears  were  all  straight  up. 

And  the  other  day  I  sat  in  this  man's  office  and  heard 
him  read  some  of  the  letters  of  execration  and  insult  that 
self-righteous  persons  imagine  are  evidence  of  their  Chris- 
tianity. He  read  these  letters  to  a  friend  who  is  bitterly 
opposed  to  mercy  for  the  rabbit.  This  friend  referred  to 
the  rabbit  as  the  most  detestable  thing  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  He  kept  repeating  the  most  scathing  anathemas 
over  and  over,  while  the  man  who  has  found  himself  hu- 
man sat  and  patiently  took  it — a  sad  expression  in  his 
eyes  and  a  tired  droop  in  his  bearing. 

I  compared  the  two  men.  Both  are  regarded  as  suc- 
cessful. One  was  standing  for  society  as  it  is  to-day,  the 
other  as  it  will  be.  How  long  must  the  world  wait  ? 

When  an  exceptionally  large  man  is  received  at  San 
Quentin,  none  of  the  stock  clothing  will  fit  him,  and  it  be- 
comes necessary  to  make  a  special  outfit  to  his  measure. 
Quite  a  number  of  exceptionally  large  men  are  received, 
and  ordinarily  the  making  of  special  clothes  causes  no  com- 
ment. But  one  day  a  prisoner  was  received  whose  meas- 
urements were  so  very  unusual  that  a  great  deal  of  atten- 


Donald  Lowrie  357 

tion  was  attracted  to  him.  He  arrived  at  noon,  and  when 
the  sheriff  in  charge  got  off  the  stage  with  him  no  one 
imagined  for  a  moment  that  he  was  a  prisoner.  He  was 
14  years  old,  wore  short  pants,  had  a  girl's  voice,  and 
one  of  his  stockings  had  a  hole  in  it. 

We  were  standing  on  the  office  porch  when  the  man- 
gate  opened  and  admitted  them.  The  sheriff  was  a  big, 
strapping  man,  emphasizing  by  his  very  massiveness  the 
diminutiveness  of  the  boy  beside  him.  As  they  drew  near, 
the  Captain  of  the  Yard — Captain  Harrison — stepped 
forward  and  greeted  the  officer  pleasantly.  But  when  th< 
Sheriff  reached  into  his  pocket  and  handed  over  a  com- 
mitment the  captain  was  puzzled.  He  glanced  at  the  doc- 
ument for  a  moment  and  then  pushed  back  his  hat. 

"This  commitment  seems  to  be  in  order,  Sheriff,  but 
where's  the  prisoner?"  he  asked. 

The  Sheriff  laughed  constrainedly  and  pointed  to  the 
boy  at  his  side. 

The  Captain  regarded  the  boy  incredulously,  and  then 
smiled. 

"Ha,  ha !  Pretty  good,  Sheriff.  I  came  near  eating  it 
up.  But  no  joshing,  where's  the  prisoner  this  calls  for?" 

He  flipped  the  commitment  with  his  forefinger.  The 
Sheriff  became  even  more  embarrassed. 

"I  hate  to  say  it,  Cap'tn,  but  it's  no  josh.  This  is  the 
prisoner." 

He  laid  has  hand  on  the  boy's  tousled  head. 

Even  then  the  Captain  hesitated.  Finally  it  seemed  to 
dawn  upon  him  that  the  child  actually  was  a  prisoner. 
The  Captain  was  the  father  of  children  himself,  and  he 
stood  regarding  the  boy — who  seemed  unconcerned — 
doubtfully  before  speaking  again.  Then  he  burst  out  in 
wrath. 

"Great  heavens,  man,  this  isn't  a  kindergarten;  it's  the 


358  My  Life  in  Prison 

State  prison.     We  don't    take    children    here.      I'd    be 
ashamed  to  bring  him  here  if  I  were  you." 

This  aroused  the  Sheriff's  ire,  and  he  lost  patience. 

"See  here,  Capt'n,  I've  been  getting  altogether  too  much' 
of  that.  It  ain't  my  fault.  This  kid  was  sentenced  by  the 
court  to  sixteen  years  here  in  San  Quentin,  and  it  was  up 
to  me  to  bring  him,  whether  I  liked  it  or  not.  You  don't 
suppose  I  enjoyed  the  job,  do  you?" 

The  Captain  stuck  out  his  hand.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Sheriff,"  he  said,  "but  it's  enough  to  make  any  man  boil 
over,  sending  a  child  like  that  to  a  place  of  this  kind. 
I  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  with  him.  I  won't  re- 
ceive him,  that's  all.  I'll  telephone  for  the  Warden  and 
let  him  settle  it. 

"Sit  down  over  there,  sonny,"  he  added,  addressing  the 
boy,  "but  I  won't  tell  you  to  make  yourself  at  home." 

The  boy  seated  himself  on  the  "mourners'  bench,"  and 
the  Captain  went  into  his  office. 

A  few  minutes  later  Warden  Tompkins  came  in,  and 
when  the  situation  had  been  explained  to  him  he  was  even 
more  wrathful  than  the  Captain  had  been. 

"Why  didn't  they  send  him  to  a  .reformatory?"  he  de- 
manded of  the  Sheriff.  "We'll  have  him  transferred  at 
once." 

"You  can't,"  replied  the  Sheriff,  decisively.    "He's  con- 
victed of  murder,  and  no  one  can  be  committed  to  the  re- 
formatory for  that.     The  judge  wouldn't  have  sent  him 
here  if  he  could  have  helped  himself,  but  he  had  no  choice." 
:      A  long  conference  ensued  between  the  Warden  and  the 
,  Captain.     The  Warden  was  for  putting  the  boy  irf~the 
"female"  department,  but  the  Captain  opposed  it  vigor- 
ously. 

"No,  that  won't  do,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  to  make 
some  kind  of  a  special  arrangement ;  it'll  never  do  to  send 
a  kid  like  this  to  the  yard.  Ah,  I've  got  it !"  he  exclaimed. 


Donald  Lowrie  359 

"Let's  assign  him  to  the  hospital  under  the  doctor's  care. 
He  can  sleep  there  nights  and  stay  with  the  chaplain  in 
the  library  during  the  day." 

This  plan  seemed  to  be  a  sensible  one,  and  was  adopted. 
But  when  the  boy  was  taken  to  the  clothing  room  another 
problem  arose — there  was  nothing  save  men's  clothes  there. 
Even  the  s'mallest  sizes  were  much  too  large  for  him.  At 
this  discovery  the  Captain  began  to  see  the  humorous  side 
of  the  matter,  and  turned  to  the  Sheriff,  who  was  standing 
in  the  doorway. 

"I  su'pose  you'll  send  his  nursing  bottle  and  the  baby 
carriage  by  express,"  he  remarked. 

The  Sheriff  grinned,  and  the  boy  laughed  resentfully. 

Another  conference  took  place,  and  it  was  decided  to 
send  the  new  arrival  to  the  hospital  in  the  clothes  he  had 
on,  but  before  he  left  his  measurements  were  taken  and 
sent  to  the  tailor  shop  with  an  order  for  a  complete  out- 
fit. 

The  next  afternoon  the  clothing  was  ready  and  the  boy 
was  sent  for.  He  donned  his  stripes  without  a  whimper, 
and  they  made  a  great  change  in  his  appearance,  espe- 
cially the  long  trousers.  They  were  the  first  long  trousers 
he  had  ever  had  on,  and  they  were — stripes. 

Of  course,  we  were  all  interested  to  learn  the  boy's  story. 
According  to  the  prosecution,  he  had  waylaid  and  killed 
his  employer,  a  rancher,  for  the  purpose  of  robbing  him, 
and  had  been  arrested  in  a  town  some  miles  distant  while 
spending  the  money  for  candy  and  ginger  snaps. 

But  according  to  the  boys'  story  he  had  been  sent  to 
the  ranch  to  work  during  the  summer  months,  and  had 
been  brutally  abused  by  the  man  whom  he  killed.  He 
never  denied  the  killing,  but  claimed  he  was  so  incensed  at 
tthat  the  man  had  done,  or  attempted  to  do  to  him,  that 
he  couldn't  help  killing  him,  and  had  taken  the  money  as 
part  of  his  revenge 


360  My  Life  in  Prison 

I  watched  this  boy  grow  into  a  youth.  He  grew  very 
rapidly,  fully  a  foot  or  more  during  the  five  years  he  re- 
mained in  prison  before  being  paroled.  He  had  a  good 
disposition,  observed  all  the  rules  and  regulations  religi- 
ously, and  became  very  much  liked  by  nearly  everyone.  A 
strong  effort  was  made  to  have  him  paroled  at  the  end  of 
one  year,  as  provided  by  law,  but  it  was  met  by  strenu- 
ous opposition  from  the  relatives  of  the  man  who  had  been 
killed  and  also  by  some  of  the  officials  of  the  county  where 
the  crime  occurred. 

After  hearing  the  case  several  times  the  Board  of  Prison 
Directors  finally  decided  that  he  must  serve  "half  time," 
according  to  their  rules.  A  sixteen-year  sentence  amounts 
to  ten  years'  actual  time ;  that  is,  it  permits  of  six  years' 
credits  for  good  behavior.  Half  time  in  this  case  was 
five  years,  and  the  boy  was  released  on  parole  exactly  five 
years  from  the  day  of  his  arrival. 

In  fairness,  however,  it  must  be  stated  that  two  of  the 
directors,  Hon.  Warren  R.  Porter  and  Tirey  L.  Ford, 
were  strongly  in  favor  of  granting  the  parole  at  an  earlier 
time.  But  it  requires  the  affirmative  vote  of  four  of  the 
five  members  of  the  board  for  the  granting  of  a  parole. 

About  a  year  after  Claude — that  was  his  Christian 
name — came  in  he  was  taken  from  the  hospital  and  as- 
signed to  a  cell.  He  was  also  given  employment  as  mes- 
senger for  the  outside  office,  which  position  necessitated 
his  being  put  on  the  "second  lock-up.'* 

One  night  I  saw  him  standing  on  the  tier  in  front  of 
his  cell,  waiting  for  the  key-man  to  come  around  and  let 
him  in.  He  stood  there  gazing  out  over  the  wall.  The  sun 
was  setting  behind  Tamalpais,  and  the  countryland  at  the 
base  of  the  mountain  looked  cool  and  restful.  The  bay 
was  placid  in  the  shimmer  of  the  waning  day.  The  boy 
looked  dismal.  There  was  something  tragic  in  his  pose, 
with  one  heel  resting  against  his  other  ankle. 


Donald  Lowrie  361 

All  his  boyhood  days  had  been  taken  from  him.  He 
would  never  romp  and  play  with  the  boys  of  his  own  age. 
He  would  never  go  swimming,  or  fishing,  or  hunting  until 
he  had  become  a  man,  until  he  had  paid  the  penalty  for 
his  childhood  crime.  A  fearful  crime  it  had  been — there 
was  no  gainsaying  that — but — 

I  don't  know  what  thoughts  might  have  followed  had 
not  Claude  turned  just  then  and  expectorated  over  the 
railing. 

He  was  chewing  tobacco. 

Claude  was  no  longer  a  boy.  He  had  suddenly  become 
a  man — 15  years  old. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Early  in  July,  1907,  John  C.  Edgar,  sick  in  bed  and 
close  to  death,  resigned  the  Wardenship  of  San  Quentin 
prison.  In  the  chapters  of  this  narrative  dealing  with 
his  administration  I  have  told  facts  very  much  to  his  dis- 
credit, both  as  man  and  as  Warden.  Those  who  dislike 
this  criticism,  and  maintain  that  I  should  have  had  the 
decency  to  "respect  the  dead,"  must  not  overlook  the  fact 
that  I  am  respecting  the  dead — the  dead  that  lie  in  that 
hideous  scar  on  the  landscape  which  affronts  the  eye  and 
clutches  the  heart  as  one  approaches  San  Quentin. 

Certainly  I  have  no  desire  to  say  or  write  anything 
savoring  of  unkindness.  But  facts  are  facts,  and  I  can 
no  more  evade  presenting  facts  about  the  dead  than  I  can 
withhold  those  concerning  the  living.  If  I  have  appeared 
to  judge  it  has  been  through  the  minds  and  the  hearts 
of  thousands  of  prisoners  and  prisoners'  relatives,  not 
personally.  But  we  all  judge,  whether  we  mean  to  or  not. 
It  is  merely  one  of  the  indications  that  the  Christian  na- 
tions have  not  vet  taken  up  Christianity. 

As  an  individual  John  C.  Edgar  had  many  good  quali- 
ties. As  a  prison  official  of  the  old  school  he  was  a  suc- 
cess. But  as  a  Warden  of  the  new  school  he  was  a  dis- 
mal failure. 

For  several  weeks  before  his  resignation  it  had  been 
rumored  that  John  E.  Hoyle,  at  that  time  the  secretary  of 
the  State  Board  of  Prison  Directors,  would  be  the  next 

36% 


Donald  Lowrie  363 

Warden.  Rumor  proved  to  be  correct.  As  secretary  to 
the  Board  of  Directors  he  had  become  known  and  was 
popular  with  the  prisoners,  and  when  it  was  learned  that 
he  had  been  appointed  Warden  there  was  a  general  feel- 
ing of  relief  and  satisfaction.  Somehow,  everyone  seemed 
to  feel  that  he  was  the  right  man  in  the  right  place. 

During  the  four  years  that  followed  I  came  to  know 
Warden  Hoyle  very  well,  and  I  have  a  personal  regard 
and  admiration  for  him  that  is  going  to  make  it  very  dif- 
ficult for  me  to  write  without  prejudice  in  his  favor.  He 
has  done  so  many  commendable  things  and  his  adminis- 
tration has  been  so  much  better  than  any  other  that  it 
seems  carping  to  point  out  defects. 

But  when  it  is  remembered  that  a  Warden  cannot 
change  the  system  and  that  his  duty  is  to  administer  af- 
fairs to  the  best  of  his  ability,  along  the  lines  laid  down 
by  the  Prison  Directors,  it  will  be  readily  seen  that  he 
cannot  be  expected  to  revolutionize  conditions  in  a  min- 
ute, nor  blamed  for  not  doing  so.  I  am  certain  that  if 
Warden  Hoyle  had  his  way  San  Quentin  prison  would  be 
much  farther  removed  from  barbarism  than  it  is ;  and  yet, 
in  the  face  of  this  statement,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
he  has  not  done  certain  things  entirely  within  his  power 
to  do,  which,  were  they  done,  would  constitute  a  long  step 
in  the  right  direction. 

A  few  days  after  Warden  Hoyle  took  charge  two  pris- 
oners escaped.  They  were  men  who  had  been  transferred 
to  San  Quentin  from  Folsom  in  the  band  of  fifty  that  had 
been  brought  down  to  work  on  the  new  prison.  At  the 
time  of  the  escape  these  two  men  were  employed  in  the 
rock  quarry,  which  is  half  way  up  the  hill  to  the  north 
of  the  prison.  Blasts  are  set  off  at  the  rock  quarry  at 
all  hours  of  the  day,  and  these  two  men  had  observed  that 
whenever  the  gang  left  the  quarry  and  went  up  the  hill- 
side to  get  a  safe  distance  from  a  blast  the  guards  in 


364  My  Life  in  Prison 

the  Gatling  gun  towers  Invariably  forgot  that  they  were 
supposed  to  be  watching  the  prisoners  and  "rubbered" 
to  see  the  blast  go  off.  Talcing  advantage  of  this  fact, 
these  two  men,  on  going  up  the  hill  one  afternoon  to  get 
out  of  the  way  of  a  blast,  could  not  resist  the  call  of  lib- 
erty, and  kept  on  going.  When  the  blast  went  off  they 
were  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  no  one  had  seen  them 

go- 

A  few  minutes  after  the  quarrymen  had  returned  to 
work  the  foot  guard  discovered  that  two  men  were  miss- 
ing. A  search  of  the  quarry  failed  to  locate  them,  and 
the  alarm  was  sent  to  Warden  Hoyle.  After  the  other 
prisoners  had  been  counted  and  locked  up  the  guards, 
armed  with  rifles,  were  sent  out  to  scour  the  hills. 

Word  had  been  telephoned  to  San  Rafael  asking  the 
Sheriff  of  the  county  to  throw  the  usual  cordon  of  men 
across  the  neck  of  the  peninsula,  and  owing  to  the  very 
short  start  which  the  escapes  had  secured  it  was  a  fore- 
gone conclusion  that  they  would  be  captured. 

The  various  posses  had  been  sent  out  in  conveyances 
and  thrown  out  in  concentric  circles  of  one,  two,  three, 
four  and  five  miles,  with  instructions  to  close  in  toward 
the  prison.  Unless  the  escapes  could  manage  to  secrete 
themselves  and  elude  the  searchers  until  dark  there  was 
verv  little  likelihood  of  their  getting  away. 

I  observed  the  new  Warden  during  all  these  mano2uvres, 
and  while  many  of  his  subordinates  were  madly  excited  and 
made  all  sorts  of  absurd  suggestions,  he  remained  cool  and 
unruffled,  maintaining  an  air  of  confidence  that  com- 
manded respect. 

About  an  hour  before  dark  one  of  the  guards  who  had 
been  sent  out  discovered  the  escapes  hiding  in  a  tree  about 
four  miles  from  the  prison.  He  fired  his  rifle  to  attract 
other  guards,  and  the  two  unfortunates  were  compelled 
to  come  down  and  be  captured. 


^Donald  Lowrie  365 

I  was  standing  on  the  porch  of  the  office,  inside  the 
walls,  when  the  two  men  were  brought  in.  One  of  them 
had  turned  his  ankle  while  running  the  first  half  mile,  and 
he  came  up  the  walk  to  the  office  limping  painfully  and 
supported  by  his  convict  companion.  They  were  followed 
closely  by  a  dozen  guards,  most  of  whom  seemed  to  be 
supremely  satisfied  with  themselves.  There  really  wasn't 
any  necessity  for  these  guards  to  come  inside,  but  they 
wanted  to  be  in  at  the  finish ;  they  knew  the  Warden  was 
inside,  and  they  wanted  him  to  know  that  they  had  taken 
part  in  the  chase. 

As  soon  as  the  escapes  arrived  at  the  office  the  jute 
mill  whistle  was  set  blowing  to  notify  the  guards  who  were 
still  out  on  the  hills  that  the  escapes  had  been  captured. 
I  had  never  before  noticed  how  mournful  the  jute  mill 
whistle  was.  The  long  blasts,  quivering  in  the  twilight, 
sounded  like  the  wails  of  lost  souls. 

And  the  faces  of  the  two  men  who  had  made  the  bid 
for  liberty  were  full  of  despair.  They  realized  that  they 
were  due  for  punishment,  and  that  by  attempting  to  cut 
short  their  imprisonment  they  had  only  succeeded  in 
lengthening  it.  Both  were  serving  long  terms,  and  as  an 
attempt  to  escape  means  a  loss  of  credits,  these  long  terms 
would  have  to  be  served  to  the  very  end. 

As  they  reached  the  porch  Warden  Hoyle  dismissed  the 
guards  and  spoke  kindly  to  the  two  prisoners.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  Captain  of  the  Yard. 

"I  don't  think  well  punish  these  men,  Captain,"  he  said. 
"Give  them  some  supper  and  let  them  go  to  their  cells. 
They've  already  been  punished  enough;  and,  of  course, 
their  credits  will  be  forfeited  by  the  directors.'* 

The  Captain  looked  astonished.  He  had  been  regarding 
the  escapes  viciously. 

"Why,  Warden,"  he  replied,  "what  are  you  thinking 
of?  Of  course  they  must  be  punished.  If  you  don't  pun- 


366  My  Life  in  Prison 

ish  them,  and  punish  them  good,  you'll  have  escapes  every 
week.    You've  got  to  make  an  example  of  them." 

The  Warden  stepped  to  the  end  of  the  porch,  and  he 
and  the  Captain  had  a  long  talk.  I  heard  the  Captain  say 
something  about  the  "cons  always  taking  advantage  of  a 
new  Warden"  and  that  it  wouldn't  do  to  "show  weak- 
ness." The  Warden  looked  troubled.  Then  he  yielded  to 
the  "judgment"  of  the  Captain  and  acquiesced  in  the  pro- 
posal that  the  escapes  be  given  a  dose  of  the  jacket. 
Never  having  seen  the  jacket  applied,  he  accompanied  the 
party  to  the  dungeon  and  witnessed  the  trussing.  When 
he  came  back  he  looked  very  grave  and  passed  out  of  the 
front  gate  with  a  slow  step,  and  with  his  head  down. 

To  me  this  incident  was  of  vital  importance.  While 
the  Captain  had  been  arguing  with  the  Warden  for  the 
punishment  of  the  offenders  I  had  hoped  most  intensely 
that  the  Warden  would  assert  himself  and  follow  the  dic- 
tates of  his  own  judgment,  but  when  he  yielded  to  the 
importunities  of  the  Captain — a  holdover  from  a  pvmi^1 
ment  administration — I  felt  that  the  future  was  not  so 
bright  with  promise  as  it  had  seemed. 

The  two  men  were  kept  in  the  jacket  about  five  days — 
six  hours  in,  six  hours  out — on  bread  and  water.  OTIO 
of  them  suffered  with  a  swollen  ankle  during  that  torture. 
When  the  Board  of  Directors  met  they  were  deprived  of 
their  credits.  They  are  both  still  in  prison.  One  of  them 
has  been  an  exemplary  prisoner  in  every  way,  but  his  face 
is  tense  and  drawn,  and  he  never  smiles.  He  is  serving 
fifteen  years. 

What  had  they  done?  They  had  taken  advantage  of  a 
guard's  carelessness,  a  guard  paid  to  watch  them,  and  had 
walked  off  without  committing  any  violence  or  endanger- 
ing any  lives  save  their  own.  The  guard  responsible  for 
their  success  in  getting  away  was  discharged,  a  fact  which 
establishes  that  the  two  prisoners  were,  from  their  view- 


Donald  Lowrie  367 

point,  justified  in  going.  And  yet  they  could  not  have 
been  more  severely  punished  had  they  cut  out  of  their  cells 
at  night  and  fought  their  way  to  freedom.  At  the  time  of 
their  escape  there  was  no  element  of  a  breach  of  honor 
involved.  They  were  surrounded  by  armed  guards  who 
could  have  shot  them  down  had  they  been  discovered  while 
running  up  the  hill.  If  these  two  men  are  compelled  to 
serve  out  their  terms — and  they  cannot  be  paroled  while 
their  credits  are  forfeited — it  will  be  no  wonder  to  me  if 
they  return  to  crime  when  they  are  released  with  $5.  Will 
it  be  any  wonder  to  you? 

From  the  very  beginning  of  his  administration  Warden 
Hoyle  evidenced  an  interest  in  the  prisoners  as  individ- 
uals. This  was  something  new.  Other  Wardens  had 
maintained  an  attitude  of  exclusiveness,  so  far  as  the 
prisoners  were  concerned,  and  had  regarded  them  collect- 
ively as  "the  cons."  But  the  new  Warden  was  of  different 
caliber.  To  him  each  individual  prisoner  was  interesting 
and  worthy  of  notice  as  a  human  being. 

During  the  first  three  or  four  months  after  he  took 
office  Warden  Hoyle  spent  most  of  his  time  inside  the 
walls,  both  day  and  night.  He  spent  the  days  in  the 
various  shops- — in  the  jute  mill,  in  the  hospital — and  he 
still  makes  regular  visits  to  the  hospital,  something  that 
no  Warden  had  ever  done  before. 

But  he  did  not  confine  these  daily  visits  to  an  inspec- 
tion of  the  places  mentioned — he  also  talked  with  the  men. 

A  writer  in  one  of  the  weekly  periodicals  some  months 
ago  dwelt  at  great  length  upon  the  way  in  which  Warden 
Hoyle  mingled  with  the  prisoners.  The  writer  thought  it 
a  very  remarkable  thing  to  do,  and  eulogized  the  Warden 
for  his  fearlessness.  Of  course,  the  only  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  such  a  viewpoint  was  that  the  prisoners  are 
a  lot  of  murderous  thugs,  waiting  to  stick  a  knife  into 
the  back  of  any  freeman  who  goes  amongst  them.  That 


368  My  Life  in  Prison 

article  disgusted  me.  I  believe  it  disgusted  every  prisoner 
who  read  it.  It  praised  the  Warden  because  he  had  the 
"courage"  to  trust  himself  among  the  men  under  his 
charge.  In  other  words,  it  praised  him  for  recognizing 
the  fact  that  prisoners  are  human  beings.  True,  other 
Wardens  had  never  mingled  with  the  men.  But  to  praise 
a  Warden  for  walking  unprotected  through  the  jute  mill 
was  puerile ;  it  showed  the  writer's  inability  to  grasp  the  r 
real  significance  of  such  an  act.  I  give  Warden  Hoyle 
absolutely  no  credit  for  mingling  with  his  charges,  but  I 
do  admire  the  native  understanding  of  human  nature  that 
prompts  him  to  do  so,  because  such  an  understanding  is 
an  essential  qualification  for  a  Warden  to  have. 

At  night  the  Warden  used  to  come  into  the  office  and 
pore  over  the  photograph  album  and  records.  It  was 
surprising  how  rapidly  he  learned  the  names  and  cases  of 
hundreds  of  prisoners.  And  after  learning  a  case  he 
would  always  ask  questions,  indicating  that  he  sought 
motives.  Of  course,  motive  is  the  prime  factor  to  be 
considered  in  every  crime.  Warden  Hoyle  has  the  char- 
acteristic that  recognizes  this. 

Before  long  he  was  conversant  with  the  facts  concern- 
ing nearly  every  prisoner  under  his  charge,  and  it  became 
evident  that  he  was  strongly  in  favor  of  parole  for  all 
deserving  prisoners. 

Of  course,  the  men  learned  this  and  the  new  Warden 
became  even  more  popular  with  them,  especially  as  there 
had  been  a  marked  decrease  in  punishment  and  a  greater 
spirit  of  consideration  shown  those  who  violated  the  rules. 

One  night  while  in  the  office  looking  over  the  photo- 
graph album  the  Warden  came  upon  the  picture  of  a 
"lifer"  who  had  been  at  San  Quentin  about  fourteen  years. 

The  picture  was  that  of  a  thin-faced,  scared-eyed  man 
with  curly  hair,  and  underneath  it  were  the  words,  "Rob- 
bery. Life.  San  Francisco." 


Donald  Lowrie  369 

"Who  is  this  man?"  asked  the  Warden,  turning  and 
laying  his  finger  on  the  photograph.  "I've  never  seen 
him.  Where  does  he  work?" 

"Big  Fitz,"  the  lock-up  clerk,  also  serving  life,  and  a 
man  with  a  remarkable  ability  for  remembering  names 
and  facts  concerning  each  inmate  of  the  prison,  stepped 
over  and  glanced  at  the  picture. 

"Why,  that's  L .  He  works  in  sack  alley,  down  in 

the  mill.  He's  w«rked  there  ever  since  he  came  here.  He's 
so  quiet  nobody  ever  notices  him,  and  he'd  never  ask  for 
anything.  When  I  worked  in  the  mill  I  tried  to  get  him 
to  come  up  and  hit  the  Captain  for  another  job,  but  he 
wouldn't  do  it.  He%  always  been  a  good  prisoner  and  he 
ought  to  get  a  good  job." 

"What  did  he  do?  What  is  he  here  for?"  asked  the 
Warden.  "This  says  robbery.  What  kind  of  a  case 
was  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing  very  serious,"  replied  Fitz.  "He's  just  a 
victim  of  the  black  judge  that  handed  a  bunch  of  guys 

life  at  the  time  of  the  Midwinter  Fair.  L was  only 

a  kid  then,  but  he  and  three  other  guys,  all  older  than 
him,  coaxed  a  sucker  up  into  a  room  to  play  cards  and 
robbed  him.  They  got  his  watch  and  a  few  dollars,  and 
they  were  all  drunk  at  the  time.  The  sucker  was  drunk, 
too,  but  he  remembered  where  the  room  was,  and  the  next 

day  he  brought  a  harness-bull  to  the  place  and  L got 

pinched  along  with  one  other  feller.  At  that  time  there 
was  quite  a  lot  of  hold-ups  going  on  and  the  bulls  were 
crazy  to  pinch  somebody.  The  other  guy — you  know 

him,  Warden — you  remember  P ;  he  was  paroled 

last  month — well,  he  was  much  older  than  L — = — ,  but  he 

had  a  drag  and  got  off  with  twenty  years.  L 

pleaded  guilty  and  the  judge  gave  him  all  of  it." 

"Why,  he  couldn't  have  got  more  if  he'd  held  somebody 


370  My  Life  in  Prison 

up  on  the  street  with  a  gun,"  said  the  Warden.  "I'll 
have  to  look  into  this  case." 

The  next  day  L was  sent  for,  and  told  his  story 

to  the  Warden,  who  instructed  him  to  make  an  applica- 
tion for  parole.  L prepared  the  application  and  a 

few  months  later  his  parole  was  authorized  by  the  State 
Board  of  Prison  Directors.  But  he  was  friendless  and 
without  money.  The  Warden  put  up  the  $25  deposit,  got 

clothing,  gave  L sufficient  money  to  start,  and 

through  the  efforts  of  Captain  Leale  a  place  was  secured 
for  him  to  work  on  one  of  the  harbor  boats. 

Within  six  months  after  his  release  L sent  Warden 

Hoyle  all  the  money  he  had  advanced.  After  two  years 
on  parole  he  was  pardoned. 

I  met  L on  Sutter  Street  one  Sunday  night  and 

had  a  chat  with  him.  With  evidence  of  considerable  pride 
he  took  a  bank  book  from  his  pocket  and  showed  me  an 
account  of  his  savings — $1,000. 

"Did  you  have  much  trouble  making  good?"  I  asked. 

"Yes  and  no,"  he  replied.  "Of  course,  the  crew  on  the 
boat  where  I  worked  at  first  didn't  know  I  was  an  ex-con, 
and  when  Christmas  came  around  they  had  a  "big  feast. 
Everybody  got  drunk,  and  they  all  wanted  me  to  drink. 
One  guy  threatened  to  knock  my  block  off  if  I  didn't 
drink,  and  for  a  few  minutes  it  looked  like  serious  trouble. 
But  I  held  out  and  managed  to  get  ashore.  I  didn't  go 
back  to  the  boat  that  night. 

"Then  one  time  an  ex-con  saw  me  on  the  boat  and  tried 
to  bleed  me.  I  gave  him  a  piece  of  money  once  or  twice 
and  then  quit.  That  made  him  sore  and  he  went  and 
told  everybody  on  board  who  I  was.  Of  course,  the  cap- 
tain knew  already,  so  it  didn't  make  any  difference,  as  far 
as  my  job  was  concerned,  but  some  of  the  crew  didn't  like 
it,  so  I  got  another  job  as  soon  as  I  could.  It  was  a 


Donald  Lowrle  371 

lucky  thing  for  me  that  I  was  on  parole  and  that  the 
captain  kriew." 

Whenever  a  paroled  prisoner  violates  his  parole  and  is 
returned  to  prison  the  public  learns  of  it.  The  thought- 
less readers  immediately  conclude  that  parole  is  a  foolish 
procedure.  But  the  public  never  hears  of  the  men  who 
make  good,  many*of  them  in  the  face  of  obstacles  and 
discouragements  far  worse  than  those  L overcame. 

It  is  well  always  to  remember  that  85  per  cent,  of 
paroled  prisoners  redeem  themselves  and  become  good  citi- 
zens. But  there  is  a  far  more  vital  fact  involved  in 
L — — 's  case.  Under  the  prison  system  he  was  sub- 
merged ;  he  was  lost ;  no  one  knew  he  was  in  prison.  Dur- 
ing fourteen  years  he  worked  faithfully,  day  after  day. 
Wardens  came  and  left,  and  he  worked  on.  Then,  more 
by  chance  than  by  design,  a  man  of  insight,  and  a  believer 
in  individualism,  was  appointed  Warden.  By  looking  over 

the  records  and  making  inquiries  he  learned  that  L 

was  serving  life  for  taking  a  few  dollars. 

By  presenting  the  case  to  the  Board  of  Prison  Direct- 
ors he  got  L paroled.  And  then  by  investing  fifty 

or  sixty  dollars  of  his  own  money  he  got  the  man  started 
toward  self-redemption.  Why  should  there  have  been 
such  an  element  of  chance?  Suppose  Warden  Hoyle  had 

not  interested  himself  in  individuals — where  would  L , 

with  his  $1,000  bank  account,  be  now? 

A  few  months  ago  the  newspapers  all  over  the  United 
States  quoted  Warden  Hoyle  as  having  said  that  the 
duration  of  a  wife's  faithfulness  to  her  husband  in  prison 
is  three  years.  I  am  quite  sure  that  Warden  Hoyle  never 
made  such  a  statement.  He  may  have  said  something  to 
the  effect  that  some  wives  forsake  husbands  who  have  been 
sent  to  the  penitentiary — especially  in  cases  where  the 
husband  has  been  committed  for  a  long  term  of  years — 
or  that  sweethearts-  frequently  find  solace  in  some  other 


372  My  Life  in  Prison 

lover  when  their  first  love  is  taken  away  and  placed  He- 
hind  prison  bars,  but  he  couldn't  have  made  the  assertion 
that  woman's  constancy  under  such  circumstances  does 
not  exceed  three  years,  because  he  takes  a  personal  inter- 
est in  such  cases  and  knows  from  experience  that  the 
majority  of  wives  remain  true  to  the  bitter — or  happy — 
end. 

Some  of  the  finest  instances  of  connubial  fealty  that  it 
is  possible  to  find  may  be  found  at  the  State  prison.  The 
circumstances  surrounding  such  cases  are  often  pathetic. 
The  other  night  while  addressing  a  public  gathering  I 
was  reminded  of  a  case  of  this  nature  by  seeing  the  hus- 
band in  the  audience.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  him  he 
was  in  stripes,  with  several  years'  impri&onment  still  be- 
fore him.  Had  I  not  seen  him  in  that  audience  the  prob- 
abilities are  that  I  should  not  have  thought  of  his  case  in 
connection  with  this  story. 

Hundreds  of  human-interest  stories  must  necessarily 
be  forgotten  and  never  be  written  because  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  retaining  them  in  mind.  But  a  face  in  the 
crowd,  a  chance  remark  or  a  moment's  conversation  often 
suffices  to  bring  back  that  which  is  apparently  gone  for- 
ever. 

This  young  man  whom  I  saw  had  only  been  married  a 
short  time  when  the  trouble  which  resulted  in  his  being 
committed  to  San  Quentin  for  seventeen  years  occurred. 
He  was  still  a  boy  in  years  at  the  time,  though  he  had 
more  than  six  feet  of  splendid  male  physique.  She,  the 
girl- wife,  was  petite  and  fair. 

One  night  when  he  came  home  after  his  day's  work  there 
was  one  little  item  short  for  dinner,  and  she  ran  out  to 
the  corner  grocery  to  get  it.  When  she  returned  a  few 
minutes  later  she  had  the  package,  but  she  was  out  of 
breath  and  crying.  He  was  much  concerned,  and  asked 
her  what  had  occurred.  At  first  she  wouldn't  tell  him,  but 


Donald  Lowrie  373 

finally  yielded  to  his  insistence.  A  man  standing  on  the 
corner  had  insulted  her  as  she  passed  and  had  then  fol- 
lowed her  home. 

Upon  learning  this  the  young  husband  grabbed  his  coat 
and  hat  and  ran  from  the  house.  No  one  but  he  knows 
just  what  occurred,  but  there  was  a  shot  and  a  man  lay 
dead  in  the  street.  The  young  husband  was  arrested  and 
charged  with  murder. 

The  little  wife  nearly  lost  her  reason  during  the  weeks 
that  followed  while  he  lay  in  jail  awaiting  trial.  He  in- 
sisted that  she  should  not  be  a  witness,  that  he  would  not 
haye  her  go  on  the  stand  and  tell  in  public  what  the  de- 
ceased had  said  to  her. 

In  this  he  was  supported  by  his  lawyer,  who  took  the 
view  that  if  the  insult  to  the  wife  were  pleaded  in  ex- 
tenuation for  the  killing  the  District  Attorney  would  seize 
upon  it  to  show  "motive"  and  would  probably  establish 
that  the  crime  had  been  premeditated,  at  least  in  degree. 
It  would  be  a  risky  "defence."  The  law  did  not,  and  a 
jury  would  not,  justify  the  husband  for  killing  a  man  who 
had  spoken  insulting  words  to  his  wife,  especially  as  he 
had  not  been  present  and  some  time  had  elapsed  between 
the  insult  and  the  killing. 

So  the  husband  decided  that  he  would  claim  that  the 
man  he  killed  had  tried  to  rob  him.  He  went  to  trial  with 
that  story,  was  convicted  of  murder  of  the  second  degree 
and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  seventeen  years. 

From  the  day  of  his  arrival,  and  all  through  the  dreary 
years  that  followed,  the  little  wife  came  regularly  to  see 
him.  She  looked  worn  and  shabby,  but  always  smiled 
when  she  met  him  in  the  "reception"  room.  She  had  se- 
cured work  in  a  store  and  was  supporting  herself  in  that 
way. 

During  the  first  year  the  husband  tried  to  maintain  an 
air  of  indifference,  but  the  effort  was  pitifully  apparent, 
and  with  the  passing  of  time  his  face  became  more  and 


374  My  Life  In  Prison 

more  the  mirror  of  his  soul,  until  its  expression  was  one 
of  chronic  gloom  and  despair.  His  eyes  seemed  to  swim 
in  sorrow.  I  have  looked  into  many  sad  human  eyes,  but 
none  more  eloquent  of  internal  death  than  his. 

Each  month  when  the  little  wife  came  over  to  see  him 
she  also  saw  and  pleaded  with  the  Warden,  and  after  he 
had  finally  convinced  her  of  his  helplessness  to  secure  her 
husband's  parole  before  he  had  served  the  Board  of  Di- 
rectors' "half  time,"  she  resorted  to  a  letter.  By  chance 
I  saw  that  letter.  The  stenographer  at  the  Warden's 
office,  impressed  by  its  pathos,  showed  it  to  me.  It  was 
written  in  a  schoolgirl  hand  and  was  blurred  with  tears. 
One  sentence  stood  out  above  all  the  rest.  I  have  never 
forgotten  it.  It  still  recurs  to  me  at  odd  times.  The 
sentence  was : 

"Please,  Mr.  Warden,  help  him  to  get  out,  so  that  we 
can  have  a  baby  like  other  married  people." 

When  the  young  husband  had  served  "half  time"  his 
application  for  parole  was  considered.  The  little  wife 
exerted  and  humiliated  herself  to  the  utmost  in  behalf 
of  her  husband.  She  needed  him,  the  store  work  for  so 
many  years  had  impaired  her  health,  and  his  prison  record 
had  been  exemplary.  But  after  having  the  application 
before  them  and  subjecting  him  to  the  usual  grilling  the 
Board  of  Directors  refused  him  a  parole.  I  forget  the 
exact  "action"  they  took.  I  think  it  was  a  denial  of 
parole,  though  it  may  have  been  a  postponement  for  one 
year.  The  applicant  tried  to  ascertain  why  he  had  not 
been  granted  a  parole,  but  could  get  no  satisfaction. 
When  the  board  refuses  to  parole  a  prisoner  they  do  not 
give  a  reason. 

This  man  had  complied  with  every  regulation,  his  con- 
duct in  prison  had  been  perfect,  he  had  a  tortured,  half- 
sick  wife  who  needed  his  support,  the  law  of  the  State, 
enacted  by  the  people,  said  he  could  He  paroled,  still  he 
was  denied,  and  without  reason.  It  has  always  seemed  to 


Donald  Loicrie  375 

me  that  the  parole  law  is  intended  for  such  cases,  if  not 
for  every  worthy  case,  but  it  isn't  applied  that  way.  If 
one  member  of  the  Board  of  Directors  conceives  an 
antipathy  for  an  applicant  that  member  can  stop  the 
parole. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  juryman  in  Oakland  who  voted 
for  a  verdict  of  "murder  in  the  first  degree"  while  the 
eleven  men  who  were  with  him  voted  for  acquittal.  To 
all  arguments  and  reason  this  juryman  remained  ob- 
durate, and  by  sticking  to  his  vote  managed  to  "hang  the 
jury." 

After  the  jury  had  been  dismissed  and  were  passing  out 
of  the  Court  House  the  foreman  approached  the  man 
who  had  done  the  "hanging"  and  asked  him  why  he  had 
voted  that  way.  The  evidence  clearly  called  for  acquittal. 

To  which  the  "hang"-man  replied  in  broken  English: 

"Veil,  I  didn't  like  the  vay  he  curled  his  hair,"  meaning 
the  defendant. 

Unable  to  restrain  himself,  the  foreman  struck  the  man 
in  the  face. 

At  a  subsequent  trial  the  defendant  was  acquitted. 

But  to  return  to  the  young  husband.  After  he  had 
been  refused  parole  his  brother  "got  busy."  This  brother 
lived  in  a  distant  State  and  had  brought  some  influence 
to  bear  on  the  case  years  before.  But  meanwhile,  on 
learning  that  the  rules  required  a  service  of  "half  time," 
he  had  subsided.  Upon  learning  what  had  occurred  at 
the  expiration  of  "half  time,"  however,  he  also  acted  man- 
like. He  refused  to  accept  such  an  arbitrary  ruling,  and 
by  exerting  himself  to  the  utmost  succeeded  in  having  the 
case  reconsidered  and  his  brother  paroled. 

The  husband  and  wife  are  together  now,  and  he  is 
"making  good," 

Suppose  the  brother  had  remained  inactive  and  the 
allowed  to  stand,  who  would  have  been  benefited, 
would  have  been  "protected"? 


CHAPTER  XXX 

In  December,  1907,  a  prisoner  named  F.  D was 

released  from  San  Quentin.  He  had  only  one  arm,  but 
had  secured  an  artificial  substitute  for  the  missing  mem- 
ber while  in  prison.  When  he  went  to  the  clothing  room 
to  dress  in  his  outgoing  garments  the  artificial  arm  was 
taken  from  him,  and  he  was  not  permitted  to  take  it  with 
him  when  he  left  the  prison.  This  was  done  because  it 
was  feared  that  the  arm  might  be  "loaded" — it  might 
contain  messages  or  money.  It  had  been  made  inside  the 
walls.  The  presumption  is  that  in  allowing  him  to  have 
this  artificial  arm  made  it  was  hoped  that  he  could  work 
to  better  advantage  for  the  State  while  in  prison.  But 
by  not  permitting  him  to  take  it  out  into  the  world  with 
him  the  State,  through  its  subordinate  prison  officials, 
denied  him  the  same  ability  to  earn  a  living  when  thrown 
upon  his  own  resources. 

I  recall  another  instance  of  an  old  man  who  made  a 
cane  for  himself  while  in  prison.  It  was  a  splendid  speci- 
men of  inlaid  work  and  was  beautifully  carved.  When 
his  term  expired  he  asked  permission  to  take  the  cane  with 
him,  but  was  refused. 

Of  course,  under  the  present  system,  there  must  be 
discipline.  Were  prisoners  allowed  to  make  such  things 
in  their  cells  every  outgoing  prisoner  would  want  to  take 
something  with  him. 

The  present  theory  is  that  he  is  sent  to  prison  to  be 

376 


Donald  Lowrie  877 

punished.  The  majority  of  persons  hold  to  that  view. 
So  long  as  that  is  the  object  and  end  of  imprisonment 
the  inmates  of  prisons  canot  manifest  as  human  beings — 
they  must  be  suppressed  in  every  way. 

But  after  this  suppression,  after  this  abnormal  period, 
they  are  expected  to  go  forth  into  the  world  of  men, 
where  initiative,  self-reliance  and  responsibility  are  the 
first  essentials  to  success  in  the  industrial  struggle,  and 
manifest  the  very  characteristics  which  have  been  beaten 
down  and  obliterated  while  they  have  been  in  prison. 
'  I  do  not  advocate  pardon  for  lawbreakers.  I  am  merely 
trying  to  show  that  the  abnormalities  of  prison  life  react 
to  the  disadvantage  of  society — that  the  punishment  idea 
is  fundamentally  wrong.  This  is  supposed  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian nation.  Christ  never  advocated  the  punishment  of 
anyone — especially  not  the  punishment  of  the  blind.  Men 
who  commit  crime  should  be  placed  under  restraint,  but 
there  should  be  no  element  of  revenge  or  retaliation  and 
the  restraint  should  last  just  so  long  as  the  delinquent 
requires  it,  and  no  longer. 

Under  this  restraint  the  wrongdoer  should  be  trained, 
not  brow-beaten  and  humiliated.  It  is  not  logical,  char- 
itable nor  economical  that  he  should.  Twist  this  as  you 
may,  it  is  irrefutable — if  this  is  really  a  Christian  nation. 

I  recall  two  prisoners  who  were  committed  from  thf 
same  county  together.  Both  were  ex-prisoners.  One  had 
committed  burglary  of  the  first  degree  (night  time),  and 
received  a  sentence  of  two  years  for  this  second  offence. 
The  other  had  committed  burglary  in  the  second  degree 
(daytime,  and  theoretically  the  less  serious  offence),  and 
received  a  sentence  of  four  years  on  his  second  con- 
viction. 

In  both  cases  the  sentencing  magistrate  was  cognizant 
of  the  fact  of  the  previous  convictions. 

Was  this  a  protection  of  society?    I  do  not  mean  that 


378  My  Life  in  Prison 

they  should  have  received  longer  sentences.  Under  the 
present  prison  system  that  would  have  done  no  good;  it 
would  merely  have  been  a  greater  revenge ;  but  why  should 
these  two  men  have  received  such  unequal  sentences,  and 
why  should  they  not  be  trained  to  become  useful  citizens 
instead  of  being  arbitrarily  committed  to  an  abnormal 
and  inhuman  existence  for  a  definite  time? 

So  many  persons  overlook  the  fact  that  it  is  the  sys- 
tem, not  individuals,  that  I  attack.  So  long  as  I  earn 
a  living  and  conform  to  the  laws  of  the  community  I  want 
protection  myself.  I  am  entitled  to  it  like  everyone  else. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  protect  myself  by  wreaking  ven- 
geance upon  a  blind  man.  I  have  been  blind  myself. 

The  light  sentences  in  the  two  cases  I  have  cited  were 
imposed  because  the  delinquents  had  pleaded  guilty. 

A  smallpox  patient  might  just  as  logically  be  given  a 
"light  jolt"  in  the  pesthouse  because  he  admits  having 
the  smallpox.  Of  course,  he  may  not  know  that  he  has 
the  smallpox — he  may  merely  know  that  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  with  him — but  as  long  as  he  agrees  that  it 
is  the  smallpox,  let  him  off  "light."  Don't  make  any 
effort  to  cure  him;  simply  send  him  to  the  pesthouse  in 
punishment  for  having  the  smallpox,  and  make  it  a  "light 
sentence"  because  he  "pleads  guilty." 

Don't  bother  about  whether  a  sojourn  in  the  pesthouse, 
managed  by  a  bunch  of  politicians,  will  cure  him.  Turn 
him  out  on  society  half  cured — it's  all  right — he  has  been 
punished. 

Would  the  man  who  objected  to  this  be  considered  a 
sentimentalist?  Would  it  not  have  to  be  admitted  that 
he  had  the  welfare  of  society,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
offender,  in  mind?  And  if  he  asked  that  the  pesthouse 
be  placed  in  charge  of  capable  men  and  that  it  be  sani- 
tary, would  he  be  branded  as  having  an  "awful  gall"? 

And  if  he  had  had  the  smallpox  himself  and  had  been 


Donald  Lowrie  379 

in  the  pesthouse,  wouldn't  he  know  something  about  it? 
And  would  the  fact  that  he  had  been  there  with  the  small- 
pox disqualify  him  from  telling  what  he  knew,  from  trying 
to  protect  others  from  such  an  absurd  and  dangerous 
condition  ? 

I  remember  a  boy  who  came  back  to  the  pesthouse  for 
a  second  "jolt."  He  was  one  of  four  boys  who  had  stolen 
a  tug  at  Eureka  five  years  before.  They  had  taken  the 
tug  out  to  sea.  Not  knowing  how  to  handle  the  boat, 
they  had  built  a  furious  fire  under  the  boiler  without  in- 
jecting water,  and  had  set  the  tug  afire.  They  were 
rescued  just  in  time  to  save  their  lives,  and  were  com- 
mitted to  San  Quentin.  Subsequently,  on  account  of  their 
ages,  they  were  transferred  to  the  reform  school.  All 
this  in  revenge,  in  punishment. 

One  came  back  to  San  Quentin  after  his  release  from 
the  reform  school,  and  died  in  the  old  hospital  from  the 
effects  of  consumption.  Another,  after  his  release  from 
the  reform  school,  was  committed  to  the  State  prison  in 
Nevada  under  sentence  of  fourteen  years  for  robbery. 

Suppose  these  boys  had  been  given  a  trial  on  probation 
for  the  first  offence,  or  suppose  they  had  been  committed 
to  the  care  of  the  State  for  training  instead  of  punish- 
ment. It  would  never  have  become  necessary  to  commit 
them  the  second  time.  Their  training,  under  the  proper 
system,  would  have  effected  a  cure.  They  would  have  re- 
mained in  the  custody  of  the  State  until  cured.  As  it  is, 
they  are  regarded  as  criminals,  and  the  probabilities  are 
that  they  will  remain  in  that  category. 

Were  I  writing  in  favor  of  the  present  system  I  might 
please  a  great  many  persons,  but  I  should  be  true  neither 
to  them  nor  to  myself,  nor  to  those  who  are  beginning  to 
see  the  light  on  the  horizon  of  civilization. 

Each  time  the  Board  of  Directors  meet  a  mail  box  is 
put  up  in  the  yard  marked :  "Letters  for  the  State  Board 


380  My  Life  In  Prison 

of  Prison  Directors."    Any  prisoner  who  wishes  to  com- 
municate with  the  directors  has  the  privilege  of  dropping 
his  communication  into  this  box,  which  is  opened  at  the 
meeting  of  the  board.     But  it  is  very  seldom  that  such ' 
letters  receive  any  attention,  and  I  have  known  the  box . 
to  remain  unopened  for  months. 

I  distinctly  remember  one  instance  when  this  box  wast 
opened  at  a  board  meeting.  The  regular  business  had 
been  finished  and  there  was  an  hour  before  train  time. 
One  of  the  members  suggested  that  the  mail  box  be  opened, 
and  it  was  done.  The  first  letter  which  came  to  the  hands 
of  the  president  was  a  complaint  from  one  of  the  prison- 
ers. The  president  read  the  letter  aloud,  and  the  prisoner 
was  sent  for.  He  came  into  the  room  with  a  questioning 
look  on  his  face,  and  the  president  asked  him  to  state  his 
complaint. 

"What  complaint?"  asked  the  prisoner.  "I  haven't  any 
complaint  to  make." 

"Isn't  your  name  G ,  and  isn't  this  your  number?" 

asked  the  president,  referring  to  the  letter  before  him. 

"Yes,  that's  my  name  and  number,"  replied  the  man. 

"And  didn't  you  write  this  letter,  complaining  about 
so-and-so?" 

The  prisoner  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and  then 
his  face  lighted  up. 

"Oh,  sure  I  wrote  it ;  I  remember  it  now.  But  I'd  for- 
gotten. It  was  over  a  year  ago  I  wrote  that  letter,  but 
I'm  all  right  now,  gentlemen." 

Reference  to  the  date  on  the  letter  established  the  fact 
that  the  prisoner  was  telling  the  truth.  The  board  ad- 
j  ourned. 

Prisoners  are  also  permitted  to  write  to  the  Warden. 
He  gets  from  ten  to  thirty  letters  a  day  from  them. 
Whenever  he  has  the  time  he  sends  for  some  of  the  writers 
and  interviews  them.  But,  of  course,  this  is  not  very 


Donald  Lowrie  381 

often,  and  the  result  is  that  men  who  write  to  the  Warden 
do  not  get  to  see  him  for  months  afterward.  Many  of 
the  letters  are  of  no  importance,  and  it  is  rather  tiresome 
to  send  for  a  man  who  writes  that  he  has  something  of  vital 
urgency  to  impart,  only  to  find  it  a  ruse  to  get  an  inter- 
view and  plead  his  own  case. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  frequently  occurs  that  a  man 
has  been  dealt  with  unjustly.  His  privileges  have  been 
forfeited,  or  he  has  been  otherwise  punished.  He  writes 
to  the  Warden  asking  for  an  interview.  Two  or  three 
months  pass  before  he  gets  it,  and  it  is  then  too  late  to 
investigate  and  right  the  wrong.  I  know  several  cases 
of  this  kind.  It  will  continue  to  be  so  until  the  officer  who 
deals  out  punishments  is  a  man  of  discretion  and  fairness. 
Letters  to  the  board,  or  to  the  Warden,  do  not  accom- 
plish much. 

Talking  with  a  discharged  prisoner  recently,  he  told 
me  that  he  wrote  several  letters  to  the  Warden  complain- 
ing that  he  could  not  get  proper  medical  treatment,  but 
he  never  got  an  interview.  This  man  also  told  me  to  be 
sure  and  remember  to  say  that  prisoners  are  not  supplied 
with  suspenders,  towels  or  tooth  brushes. 

"Of  course,  they  get  soap,  but  you  know  what  it  is — 
hard  as  a  rock  and  full  of  lye." 

When  a  prisoner  is  received,  even  if  he  have  money,  he 
cannot  purchase  a  towel  until  the  end  of  the  month.  The 
suspenders  he  has  on  when  he  arrives  are  given  back  to 
him.  But  if  he  is  without  funds  he  cannot  get  another 
pair  during  his  term  of  imprisonment.  The  rules  say  that 
trading  will  be  followed  by  punishment;  but,  of  course, 
the  prisoners  trade.  What  else  can  a  life-timer  do  if  he 
wants  to  keep  his  trousers  up? 

I  well  remember  the  case  of  a  prisoner,  a  lifer,  who 
came  in  December,  1907.  He  was  given  a  towel  by  an 
acquaintance  who  had  known  him  "outside."  This  oc- 


382  My  Life  in  Prison 

curred  before  the  new  man  had  been  instructed  as  to  the 
rule  forbidding  one  prisoner  to  give  anything  to  another. 

The  Lieutenant  of  the  Yard  saw  the  new  man  with  the 
towel  and  asked  him  where  he  got  it.  The  man  knew  by 
the  Lieutenant's  attitude  that  some  rule  had  been  violated, 
so,  in  order  to  protect  his  friend,  said  the  towel  had  been 
given  to  him  by  a  prisoner  whom  he  did  not  know ;  that  a 
strange  man  had  walked  up  to  him  and  asked  him  if  he 
had  a  towel,  and  on  learning  that  he  had  not  had  given 
him  one. 

The  Captain  listened  to  this  story  and  then  ordered  the 
man  to  the  dungeon — "To  show  him  where  he  is,"  said 
the  Captain.  So,  for  not  informing  against  his  friend, 
this  man,  just  beginning  a  life  sentence,  was  placed  in 
the  dungeon. 

Of  course,  there  must  be  certain  rules  governing  such 
things,  but  a  new  man,  a  man  who  has  just  arrived,  should 
not  be  subjected  to  punishment.  A  reprimand  would 
have  been  more  effective. 

Sometimes  a  prisoner  arrives  intoxicated  and  is  surly 
or  boisterous.  Many  of  the  Deputy  Sheriffs  bringing 
men  to  prison  feel  that  it  will  make  them  temporarily 
oblivious  of  their  fate  if  they  have  a  few  drinks.  But 
after  a  man  has  been  in  jail  a  few  drinks  make  him  drunk. 

Sometimes  Deputy  Sheriffs  allow  prisoners  to  purchase 
a  quantity  of  tobacco  while  on  the  journey,  on  the  pre- 
sumption that  they  will  be  allowed  to  have  it  at  San 
Quentin.  But  the  rule  is  that  the  incoming  prisoner  can- 
not have  anything  save  his  suspenders  and  a  comb.  If 
he  have  handkerchiefs  or  a  towel  with  him  they  are  sent 
to  the  laundry,  and  he  gets  them  two  or  three  days  later. 

On  one  occasion  a  one-legged  man  came  in  and  had 
some  love  letters  secreted  in  his  artificial  leg.  There  were 
two  letters  and  a  lock  of  hair,  and,  of  course,  they  were 
(discovered  when  the  leg  was  examined.  He  had  been  sen- 


Donald  Lowrie  383 

tenced  to  fifteen  years  for  arson,  and  the  letters  were 
protestations  of  undying  love  from  his  sweetheart.  When 
he  learned  that  these  letters  had  been  discovered  and  read 
he  was  greatly  agitated. 

"Why  did  you  hide  them  in  the  leg?"  asked  the  turnkey. 
"Didn't  you  know  that  we  would  have  given  them  to  you 
if  you'd  had  them  in  your  pocket?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  that.  They  told  me  at  the  jail.  But  I 
didn't  want  anybody  else  to  see  them.  They're  mine,  and 
her  name  is  sacred." 

He  was  given  the  letters  and  the  lock  of  brown  hair, 
but  not  his  artificial  leg.  He  went  over  to  the  yard  on 
crutches.  Several  days  later,  however,  after  the  leg  had 
been  subjected  to  a  thorough  examination,  it  was  returned 
to  him. 

One  morning  a  guard  who  had  been  in  San  Francisco 
the  day  before  stopped  at  the  turnkey's  office  with  the 

information  that  he  had  seen  "Blackie"  B working 

as  a  street-car  conductor  in  the  city.    "Blackie"  had  been 
at  San  Quentin  and  was  a  well-known  character. 

Upon  learning  that  "Blackie"  was  so  employed  Mr. 
Murray,  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Yard,  immediately  ex- 
claimed : 

"Gee,  the  street-car  company  ought  to  know  that. 
What  a  fine  chance  for  him  to  pick  pockets  and  swipe 
jewelry  while  he's  pushin'  through  the  crowd.  The  next 
time  I  go  to  town  I'll  cook  his  goose." 

And  yet  I  have  heard  this  same  prison  officer  revile 
prisoners  who  returned  to  prison  for  a  second  offence. 

"Well,  well;  back  again?  You  must  be  stuck  on  the 
place.  And  just  in  time  for  Christmas  dinner." 

That  was  his  usual  line  of  greeting  to  those  who  came 
back  after  struggling  to  do  right  and  failing. 

On  another  occasion  I  heard  this  same  Mr.  Murray  ask 


384  My  Life  in  Prison 

the  turnkey  if  he  had  observed  a  certain  marriage  notice 

in  one  of  the  San  Francisco  papers. 

"That  feller,  Al  G ,  is  going  to  get  married,  and 

it's  dollars  to  doughnuts  she  and  her  folks  don't  know 

he's  an  ex-con.     They  ought  to  be  told." 

In   this   particular   instance   Murray   may  have   been 

right — the  girl  had  a  right  to  know — but  he  was  not  right 

from  his  point  of  view,  because  his  motive  was  to  discredit 
the  man  more  than  to  protect  the  girl.  G had  served 

fifteen  years.  He  had  been  a  quiet,  reserved  and  manly 
prisoner. 

And  this  attitude  on  the  part  of  certain  subordinate 
prison  officers  toward  men  who  have  paid  the  penalty  and 
have  been  discharged  only  went  to  convince  me  that  the 
best  thing  for  a  discharged  prisoner  to  do  is  to  declare 
who  he  is  right  from  the  start,  and  endeavor  to  work  out 
his  salvation  in  that  way.  Of  course,  it  is  a  hard  thing 
to  do,  but  I  feel  sure  that  it  pays  in  most  cases. 

Discharged  prisoners  have  no  rights  that  they  may  feel 
sure  of  so  long  as  the  possibility  of  exposure  exists.  I 
recall  a  very  interesting  case  where  a  paroled  prisoner 
had  violated  the  conditions  surrounding  him  and  escaped. 
The  usual  order  was  given  for  the  photographer  to  make 
a  large  number  of  photographs  to  be  spread  broadcast  in 
the  hope  of  apprehending  the  offender. 

While  these  photographs  were  being  prepared  Mr. 
Murray  suddenly  remembered  that  the  violator  had  been 

very  chummy  with  another  prisoner,  named  G ,  while 

both  had  been  in  confinement.     G had  recently  been 

discharged,  having  served  his  term,  and  it  occurred  to 
Mr.  Murray  that  the  parole  violator  might  have  joined 
his  old  prison  chum,  and  that  they  might  be  together.  He 
suggested  this  possibility  to  the  Captain  of  the  Yard, 
and  that  officer  immediately  issued  an  order  for  the  pho- 
tographer to  make  photographs  of  G to  be  dissenv 


Donald  Lowrie  385 

mated  with  those  of  the  parole  violator,  and  that  the  de- 
scription card  should  state  that  in  all  probability  the  two 
men  would  be  found  travelling  together. 

This  certainly  was  a  rank  injustice  to  the  man  G , 

who  had  served  his  term  and  been  discharged.  Because 
a  prison  officer  imagined  that  he  might  be  in  company 
with  a  parole  violator  his  photograph  was  spread  broad- 
cast. 

On  another  occasion  I  heard  the  matron  (not  the  pres- 
ent matron)  declare  that  all  discharged  prisoners  should 
be  compelled  to  work  with  a  pick  and  shovel,  so  that  they 
should  feel  "their  degradation."  In  other  words,  after 
paying  the  penalty  exacted  by  the  law,  after  discharging 
his  debt  to  society  under  the  present  system  of  dealing 
with  those  who  violate  the  law,  the  offender  should  be  made 
to  feel  that  he  is  an  outcast  and  not  entitled  to  an  equal 
chance  with  other  men,  no  matter  how  much  he  may  want 
to  redeem  himself. 

In  direct  contrast  to  this  attitude  toward  the  dis- 
charged prisoner  on  the  part  of  some  prison  officials,  I 
once  heard  a  San  Francisco  police  officer  of  high  rank 
declare  that  he  always  advised  discharged  prisoners  to 
make  a  clean  start. 

"I  always  tell  them  to  tell  the  party  they  go  to  work 
for  all  about  it.  It  pays  for  them  to  do  that,  and  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about." 

"And  do  you  really  think  an  ex-con  ever  amounts  to 
anything?"  asked  Mr.  Murray  in  moist  expectancy.  "Do 
they  ever  make  good  altogether?" 

"You  bet  they  do,"  was  the  emphatic  reply.  "Of 
course,  some  of  them  don't;  but  more  of  them  do  than 
most  people  imagine." 

There  is  a  prisoner  now  confined  at  San  Quentin  who 
was  released  from  Folsom  after  serving  about  twenty-five 
years.  He  was  old  and  broken  in  health  at  the  time  of 


386  My  Life  in  Prison 

his  release,  and  the  first  work  he  secured  was  in  a  livery 
stable.  But  he  only  held  the  job  one  day,  and  was  dis- 
charged because  he  didn't  know  how  to  harness  a  horse. 
Then  he  went  to  work  as  a  laborer,  with  a  pick  and  shovel. 
After  three  days  he  was  discharged  again — he  was  too  old 
and  decrepit  to  "hold  his  end  up." 

For  several  weeks  he  lived  from  hand  to  mouth,  until 
finally,  driven  to  desperation,  he  committed  another  crime 
and  was  returned  to  prison.  I  always  felt  that  the  second 
crime  was  not  a  crime  at  all — at  least  not  his  crime. 

One  of  the  finest  acts  I  knew  Warden  Hoyle  to  do 
was  to  aid  a  prisoner  who  had  been  returned  to  San 
Quentin  for  violating  his  parole.  When  this  man's  term 
finally  expired  the  Warden  went  out  of  his  way  to  secure 
employment  for  him.  Generally,  the  parole  violator  gets 
scanty  consideration.  Everyone  seems  to  feel  that  he  has 
had  his  chance  and  that  there  is  nothing  more  coming  to 
him.  But  in  this  instance  the  Warden  realized  that  this 
particular  man  was  worthy  of  more  encouragement  and 
assistance,  that  he  had  a  new  struggle  to  face.  So  he 
got  the  man  a  position.  And  this  man,  who  had  violated 
his  parole,  appreciated  what  the  Warden  had  done,  and 
made  good. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

It  is  the  dead  of  night,  and  save  for  the  subdued  whir 
of  the  lights  in  the  electric  tower  all  is  still  as  the  grave. 
The  drab  cell-houses,  checkered  with  the  apertures  of 
numerous  counter-sunk  steel  doors,  resemble  tfour  huge 
tombs.  Not  even  the  drone  of  the  waves  against  the 
rugged  coast  a  few  yards  distant  penetrates  the  vast  walls 
that  rise  on  every  side  and  hem  in  this  colony  of  crime 
from  the  world  of  righteousness,  out  of  which  it  has  been 
wrested  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law. 

"Twelve  o'clock,  and  all-1-l-l's  well!" 

The  blatant  voice  of  the  guard  in  No.  1  post  suddenly 
breaks  upon  the  midnight  calm.  The  cry  is  caught  up 
and  repeated  by  No.  2,  and  then,  in  varying  intonations, 
in  voices  deep  and  resonant,  in  voices  harsh  and  cracked, 
in  squeaky,  in  shrill,  in  twanging  voices  it  is  tossed  and 
bandied  and  passed  from  post  to  post  until  every  nook 
and  cranny  of  the  great  prison  reverberates  with  the 
multisonous  discords. 

"Twelve  o'clock,  and  all-1-l-l's  well!" 

Hundreds  of  fitful  sleepers  turn  uneasily  on  their  hard, 
narrow  cots  in  the  ill-ventilated  cells.  Resignedly  they 
recognize  the  call  of  the  law — their  hourly  nocturnal 
nemesis — reminding  them  that,  even  in  sleep,  they  are 
jconvicts,  convicts,  convicts — outcasts  and  pariahs. 

And  this  is  midnight  of  the  31st  of  December — the  call 
has  ushered  them  into  a  new  year.  To  some  this  means 

387 


388  My  Life  In  Prison 

nothing,  for  time  has  lost  its  relation  to  life — they  are 
"doing  it  all."  To  others — to  that  row  of  cells  where 
the  lights  burn  all  night  so  that  a  suicide  in  the  dark  may 
not  cheat  the  gallows — it  means  the  dawn  of  eternity, 
their  last  new  year — a  day  nearer  the  "rope."  To  a  few 
it  signalizes  the  approach  of  freedom,  the  beginning  of 
the  year  which  has  been  so  patiently  awaited,  perchance 
for  five,  ten  or  fifteen  years.  To  still  others  it  brings 
hazy  recollections  of  boyhood,  of  the  gala  times  spent  in 
celebrating  the  dawn  of  the  new  years  long  since  dead 
and  gone. 

"Twelve  o'clock,  and  all-1-l-l's  well!" 

The  echoes  finally  die  away,  and  all  is  again  still. 
Once  more  the  men  and  the  boys  in  the  bare,  cheerless 
cells  fall  into  troubled  sleep.  Not  a  sound  save  the  shuf- 
fling feet  of  the  second  night  watch,  who  come  in  to 
relieve  the  first  watch,  and  a  few  gruff  "good  nights,"  as 
the  relieved  men  turn  over  their  arms,  breaks  the  stillness. 

But  hark!  What  is  that  noise,  faint  and  far  away? 
At  first  it  sounds  like  the  moaning  of  the  wind,  but  pres- 
ently resolves  itself  into  the  blasts  of  remote  whistles. 
They  are  so  far  away  that  individuality  is  lost,  and  it 
sounds  like  a  wail;  the  element  of  rejoicing  is  absent.  A 
drizzling  rain  begins  to  fall  as  the  last  guard  passes  out 
of  the  front  gate  to  his  sleep.  It  has  come  to  Baptize 
the  infant  year. 

"They're  having  a  great  old  time  in  'Frisco  town  to- 
night," he  remarks,  as  the  gatekeeper  softly  closes  the 
steel  door  behind  him.  Over  on  the  porch  of  the  office  a 
lone  figiire  is  standing.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  man  in  dark  clothes  and  derby  hat.  It  is  the 
Warden  of  San  Quentin  prison.  He  has  been  Warden  for 
six  months.  What  is  he  doing  inside  the  prison  at  that 
hour  of  the  night?  Why  isn't  he  at  home  and  asleep? 
The  guards  are  all  at  their  posts,  and  the  prisoners  are 


Donald  Lowrie  389 

all  securely  locked  in  the  black  cells  across  the  quadrangle. 
The  explanation  is  contained  in  the  remark  that  he  makes 
as  he  passes  the  guard  at  No.  1  post  on  his  way  out  of 
the  prison  a  few  minutes  later: 

"Well,  it  worked.  They  responded  to  the  call  on  their 
honor.  Good-night." 

What  did  the  Warden  mean  by  that  remark,  and  who 
are  "they"? 

For  years  and  years  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin  had 
looked  upon  New  Year's  Eve  as  a  time  when  they  might 
take  matters  into  their  own  hands.  For  years  and  years 
they  had  remained  awake  on  the  night  of  December  31, 
waiting  for  the  midnight  call;  waiting  with  wash  basins, 
heavy  brogans,  stools  and  bed  slats  in  their  hands.  And 
no  sooner  did  the  guard  in  No.  1  post  begin  the  midnight 
call  than  pandemonium  broke  loose.  Iron  doors  were 
beaten  with  stool  and  cans  and  shoes.  Curses  were 
shrieked  from  the  wickets  out  into  the  night.  Band  in- 
struments were  blown  in  horrible  discord.  The  bass  drum 
in  the  bandroom  was  usually  beaten  into  a  pulp. 

All  the  repression,  all  the  hate,  all  the  despair  of  the 
year  was  suddenly  released  and  poured  forth  in  a  torrent 
that  made  fear  clutch  at  the  heart.  The  thing  was  con- 
tagious. Men  of  quiet  dispositions,  opposed  to  the  law- 
less outbreak,  would  find  themselves  shrieking  and  pound- 
ing with  the  others.  For  three  hours  the  noise  would  con- 
tinue. Sometimes  it  would  die  down  and  almost  cease 
when  one  or  two  spirits  more  untamed,  more  bitter,  more 
lawless  than  the  others,  would  shriek  afresh,  and  then  the 
outburst  would  follow  with  redoubled  vigor.  Many  men 
took  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  bellow  the  most  hor- 
rible curses  at  the  guards  or  officers  whom  they  disliked. 
The  residents  of  San  Quentin  village  used  to  assemble 
on  the  little  hill  just  beyond  the  prison  wall  to  the  north 
and  listen  to  the  outburst.  The  next  morning  the  yard 


390  My  Life  in  Prison 

would   be    strewn    with    broken    stools    and    demolished 
buckets. 

Many  Wardens  had  tried  to  stop  this  New  Year's  dem- 
onstration. Some  had  placed  guards  on  the  tiers  witb 
orders  to  take  the  numbers  of  the  cells  where  any  noise 
occurred.  Others  had  posted  notices  in  the  yard  that 
any  noise  at  midnight  would  be  followed  by  a  deprivation 
of  all  privileges  during  the  new  year.  Still  others  had 
stretched  the  fire  hose  with  instructions  to  the  guards  to 
play  streams  of  water  into  the  cells  and  dormitories  if 
an  outburst  occurred.  But  all  these  measures  failed  of 
their  purpose.  They  were  like  waving  a  red  flag  before 
an  angry  bull. 

On  one  occasion  when  there  was  sickness  in  the  War- 
den's house  he  had  sent  a  request  to  the  prisoners  asking 
them  to  keep  quiet.  Most  of  them  did  so,  but  a  few  did 
not.  That  particular  Warden  was  not  liked. 

And  yet  on  New  Year's  Eve  of  1907  midnight  came  and 
went  without  a  sound  save  the  regulation  call.  There  were 
no  guards  posted  on  the  tiers ;  there  were  no  lines  of  fire 
hose  stretched  from  the  stand-pipes ;  there  had  been  no 
threat  of  loss  of  privileges.  Old-time  prison  officials  had 
frequently  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  would  never  be 
possible  to  stop  the  demonstration  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
Wardens  with  eight  years'  experience  had  been  unable  to 
stop  it.  Surely  a  young  man  who  had  been  Warden  for 
only  six  months  could  not  hope  to  accomplish  it.  But 
the  young  man  did,  and  by  doing  so  placed  a  period  at 
the  end  of  decades  of  misunderstanding  between  prisoners 
and  their  keepers. 

What  had  he  done  to  bring  about  such  an  attitude  of 
respect.  Had  he  threatened  the  men  with  punishment? 
Had  he  doped  them  with  sedatives  at  the  evening  meal  the 
night  before?  No;  he  had  done  neither  of  these  things. 
He  had  simply  had  notices  distributed  in  the  cells  and  dor- 


Donald  Lowrie  391 

mitories  asking  each  prisoner  to  refrain  from  making  any 
noise  at  midnight,  and  stating  that  he  hoped  they  would 
feel  that  the  request  was  made  in  good  faith,  and  that  he 
felt  confident  each  one  would  respond  to  it. 

Why  had  the  men  responded?  Well,  a  week  before,  on 
Christmas  Eve,  the  Warden  had  come  inside  the  prison 
and  had  been  much  surprised  to  see  socks  hanging  from 
nearly  every  wicket.  It  had  been  an  amusement  for  the 
old-time  prison  officers  to  see  socks  hung  out  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  but  to  Warden  Hoyle  it  was  something  more 
than  amusing.  He  promptly  sent  an  officer  to  San  Quen- 
tin  Point  and  bought  every  bit  of  confection  and  fruit  in 
the  town;  and  when  the  officer  got  back  with  his  load  it 
was  distributed  in  the  socks  at  midnight. 

Next  morning  when  the  prisoners  awoke  and  found  that 
they  had  at  last  been  remembered  it  struck  deeply.  It 
was  not  the  first  instance  of  the  new  Warden's  humani- 
tarianism,  but  it  made  a  deeper  impression  than  anything 
else  he  had  done.  Some  may  call  it  sentiment — perhaps 
it  was — but  it  did  not  prove  so  a  week  later  on  New  Year's 
Eve.  And  at  each  New  Year's  Eve  since  that  time 
the  whistles  and  bells  at  San  Francisco,  San  Ra- 
fael and  from  the  Contra  Costa  shore  have  merely 
served  to  lull  the  inmates  of  San  Quentin  into  deeper  sleep. 

I  have  made  an  incidental  reference  to  Christmas.  Per- 
haps it  will  interest  some  readers  to  know  what  Christ- 
mas means  and  brings  to  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin. 
The  fact  that  it  was  not  mentioned  in  chronological  se- 
quence, and  that  an  incidental  reference  chanced  to  bring 
it  to  mind,  is  in  itself  significant.  Christmas  means  very 
little  to  the  men  in  stripes.  True,  they  get  a  pork  din- 
ner, but  so  far  as  the  Yuletide  cheer  is  concerned  the 
prison  walls  are  impenetrable. 

In  the  first  place  holiday  "time"  is  observed;  that  is, 
the  unlock  is  at  7  a.  m.  and  the  lock-up  at  3  p.  m.  This 


392  My  Life  in  Prison 

is  necessary  because  the  guards  and  officers  must  have 
their  Christmas  freedom;  and  after  eight  hours  in  the 
yard  the  prisoners  are  tired  and  are  glad  to  return  to 
their  cells.  At  that  time  of  the  year  it  is  usually  cold 
and  rainy,  and,  in  spite  of  the  wretched  ventilation,  the 
cells  are  preferable  to  the  "bull  pen"  with  its  fetid  miasma 
rising  from  the  tobacco  stained  asphaltum. 

Breakfast  on  Christmas  Day  consists  of  sausage, 
mashed  potatoes,  bread,  butter  and  coffee.  Dinner,  at  2 
p.  m.,  consists  of  roast  pork,  potatoes,  bread,  butter, 
coffee,  pie,  cake,  pudding  and  fruit.  Butter  is  never 
served  save  on  holidays.  Owing  to  the  number  of  meals 
to  be  supplied  and  the  limitation  of  the  ovens,  the  pork 
is  roasted  in  batches  the  day  before  and  served  cold  at  the 
Christmas  dinner. 

The  portion  of  food  served  to  each  man  is  bounteous, 
so  bounteous  that  not  more  than  one-third  of  it  can  be 
eaten  at  the  table.  On  holidays  and  Sundays  the  pris- 
oners are  permitted  to  carry  food  to  their  cells,  and  when 
the  men  march  out  of  the  dining-room  after  Christmas 
dinner  one  is  reminded  of  a  line  of  immigrants  landing  at 
Castle  Garden.  Each  man  has  a  large  newspaper  bundle 
— and  a  smile. 

Some  of  the  prisoners  who  do  not  use  tobacco  wait  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  and  bargain  for  pie  and  cake.  Each 
prisoner  gets  half  a  mince  pie,  which  is  worth  two  rations 
of  tobacco.  Cake  and  pork  are  each  worth  one  ration. 

At  the  time  I  worked  in  the  jute  mill  "Fatty"  was  the 
chief  merchant  as  well  as  the  pawnbroker  of  the  prison. 
On  Christmas  and  other  holidays  he  used  to  hire  agents, 
on  commission,  to  wait  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  buy 
pie  and  other  food.  By  this  procedure  he  would  corner 
thirty  or  forty  pies.  Three  or  four  days  after  Christ- 
mas a  half  pie  was  worth  four  or  five  sacks  of  tobacco, 
and  "Fatty"  always  came  out  a  few  hundred  rations  of 


Donald  Lowrle  393 

"weed"  to  the  good.  Moneyed  prisoners  would  buy  hii 
supply  at  the  advanced  rate,  and  be  glad  to  get  it. 

During  the  week  following  Christmas  the  prison  physi- 
cian is  kept  busy.  Many  of  the  men  who  are  able  to  buy 
extra  rations  keep  the  food  too  long,  and  when  they  eat 
it  the  result  is  disastrous.  This  is  especially  true  of  pork. 
When  a  prisoner  becomes  ill  at  night  he  raps  on  the 
door  of  his  cell  with  a  tin  cup  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  night  sergeant. 

The  doctor  is  not  on  duty  inside  the  prison  at  night, 
but  leaves  a  few  remedies  with  the  night  sergeant,  such  as 
"cramp  medicine,"  salts,  toothache  drops  and  the  like. 
If  the  man  is  very  sick  the  sergeant  gets  two  nurses  from 
the  hospital  with  a  stretcher,  and  he  is  carried  into  one  of 
the  wards  where  the  nurses  (prisoners)  treat  him.  If  his 
condition  is  alarming  the  doctor  is  telephoned  for. 

Some  years  ago  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin  were  per- 
mitted to  have  food  and  presents  from  relatives  and  friends 
at  Christmas.  But  when  the  fight  was  waged  against 
"dope"  this  privilege  was  stopped.  It  was  found  that 
opium  and  morphine  were  introduced  into  the  prison  in 
that  way.  On  one  occasion  a  roasted  turkey  disgorged 
half  a  pound  of  opium  "dressing."  Confections  were  util- 
ized for  the  same  purpose.  Even  towels  would  be  soaked 
in  an  opium  bath,  and  on  being  received  by  the  prisoner 
would  be  subjected  to  a  re-soaking.  The  resultant  liquid 
would  be  bottled  up  and  imbibed  by  degrees.  Some  of  the 
schemes  for  getting  the  stuff  were  really  ingenious.  So 
the  order  was  issued  that  nothing  woud  be  permitted  in 
the  way  of  presents  at  Christmas.  That  was  many  years 
ago,  but  the  rule  still  holds. 

The  first  year  of  Warden  Hoyle's  administration  he 
wanted  to  permit  the  prisoners  to  have  the  gifts  that 
came  for  them  at  Christmas,  but  was  dissuaded  Kythe 
Captain  of  the  Yard.  "Dope"  had  been  effectively. 


394  My  Life  In  Prison 

stamped  out,  and  save  sporadic  attempts  to  introduce  it, 
had  been  forgotten  by  most  of  the  prisoners. 

The  Warden  took  the  stand  that  it  was  not  right  that, 
all  the  prisoners  should  be  deprived  of  Christmas  cheer 
because  a  few  of  them  might  take  advantage  of  the  oc- 
casion to  get  "dope."  But  the  Captain  remained  firm. 
He  argued  that  the  prison  would  be  full  of  "dope"  in  a 
month  if  there  was  the  least  relaxation  of  the  rules.  So 
the  Warden  decided  that  there  should  be  no  Chrismas 
gifts. 

I  do  not  know  which  man  was  right.  I  know  the 
condition  was  awful  when  "dope"  got  into  the  prison, 
and  I  know  that  some  men  will  do  almost  anything  to 
get  it.  Even  letters  are  sometimes  soaked  in  opium  water, 
and  the  turnkey  frequently  tastes  the  paper.  If  it  is 
bitter  he  sends  the  letter  to  the  druggist  for  further 
examination,  and  it  has  often  been  established  that  letters 
contained  "dope,"  which  had  been  soaked  into  the  paper  on 
which  they  were  written.  But  it  seldom  occurs  now. 

In  spite  of  rules  many  friends  persist  in  sending  little 
remembrances  to  the  prisoners  at  Christmas  time.  The 
men  for  whom  these  remembrances  are  intended  are  called 
to  the  office  and  permitted  to  look  at  them,  and  then  they 
are  either  sent  back,  or  put  away  until  the  prisoner's  term 
expires.  On  the  day  of  his  release  he  gets  the  gift — some- 
times several  years  after  it  has  been  received. 

When  photographs  are  received  in  the  mail  they  are 
not  delivered  unless  the  men  for  whom  they  are  intended 
give  permission  to  have  them  dismounted  from  the  card- 
board. If  they  agree  to  this  the  photograph  is  sent  to 
the  photographer,  who  soaks  it  from  the  mounting! 
Books  and  magazines  are  not  permitted  save  directly? 
from  the,  publishers.  A  book  or  magazine  that  come* 
under  stamps  is  confiscated.  Even  a  subscription  to  * 
magazine  is  questioned. 


Donald  Lowrle  395 

The  rule  is  that  anyone  desiring  to  subscribe  for  a 
magazine  to  be  sent  to  a  prisoner  shall  send  the  money 
to  him  so  that  the  order  can  be  placed  through  the  prison 
office.  The  same  rule  applies  to  books.  I  know  several 
prisoners  who  have  valuable  text  books  at  home,  or  in 
the  hands  of  outside  friends,  but  cannot  have  them  sent  in. 
Under  Warden  Hoyle  a  Christmas  amnesty  is  pro- 
claimed each  year.  On  that  day  all  lost  privileges  are 
restored,  and  the  punishment  slate  sponged  off.  This 
enables  every  prisoner  to  start  the  new  year  afresh.  It  is 
the  nearest  thing  to  the  Christ  spirit  that  I  saw  at  San 
Quentin  in  so  far  as  the  body  of  prisoners  are  concerned. 
Of  course,  I  know  of  individual  instances  where  the  Christ 
spirit  has  been  manifested  very  beautifully. 

But  Christ  seldom  penetrates  prison  walls.     Still,  He 
sometimes  comes  up  from  underground. 

In  January,  1908,  a  prisoner  named  R was  caught 

making  abalone  shell  ornaments  in  his  cell.  The  Captain 
of  the  Yard  inferred  that  he  was  engaged  in  making  these 
ornaments  for  the  guards — that  he  was  trading — and  the 
man  was  sent  to  the  dungeon  and  placed  in  the  strait- 
jacket  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  him  to  divulge  with 
whom  he  was  "doing  business."  For  several  days  he  was 
kept  in  the  jacket — six  hours  in,  six  hours  out. 

On  the  afternoon  of  January  20,  1908,  Ed  Morrell, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  accompany  the  dungeon  officer  when 
he  went  down  there,  came  into  the  office  and  called  me 
into  the  plate  room. 

"This  R case  is  getting  fierce,"  he  groaned.     "I 

can't  stand  seeing  much  more  of  this  kind  of  thing.  I 
feel  like  throwing  everything  up  and  killing  some  of  these 

torturers.     R can't  stand  much  more,  and  yet  they 

intend  giving  it  to  him  worse  than  ever.  Just  now  the 
Captain  told  Murray  to  put  a  coat  on  him  to-night  before 
he  goes  into  the  sack,  so  as  to  make  it  tighter.  You  see, 


396  My  Life  in  Prison 

he's  shrunk  so  much  since  he  first  went  in,  that  the  jacket 
is  getting  loose.  The  coat  will  make  it  fit  tight — and 
hotter." 

That  evening  the  dungeon-keeper — a  prisoner — rushed 
to  the  office  with  the  startling  information  that  he  thought 

R was  dying.     The  Captain  came  into  the  turnkey's 

office  for  the  keys  and  went  down  to  investigate.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  returned,  a  look  of  fiendish  satisfaction  on 
his  face. 

1     "Has  he  squealed?"  asked  Murray,  the  Lieutenant  of 
'the  Yard. 

"No,  the ,"  was  the  reply,  "but  he  will 

(before  I  get  through  with  him." 
The  dungeon-keeper  at  that  time  was  a  Mexican  serving 
forty  years.  He  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow.  He  had 
a  little  shack  just  outside  the  dungeon-door,  and  was 
supposed  to  prevent  anyone  from  going  near  the  place. 
He  also  attended  to  getting  the  bread  and  water  for  the 
victims  inside. 

Men  sentenced  to  the  jacket  are  trussed  up  at  7  a.  m. 
and  remain  that  way  until  1  p.  m.  Then  they  have  the 
freedom  of  the  dark  cell  until  7  p.  m.,  when  they  are 
again  trussed  up,  to  remain  until  1  a.  m.,  at  which  hour 
the  sergeant  of  the  second  watch  takes  the  jacket  off 
until  morning.  They  are  fed  a  few  ounces  of  bread  and 
water  every  twenty-four  hours.  This  punishment  con- 
tinues as  long  as  the  Captain  of  the  Yard  desires. 

The  R case  made  a  lasting  impression  on  me,  be- 
cause it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  Morrell  from  doing 
something  rash.  That  night  he  paced  the  floor  of  the 
office  and  almost  wept. 

"Some  life  will  have  to  be  sacrificed  again  to  stop  this 
horror,"  he  declared.  "The  newspapers  won't  publish 
what  a  discharged  prisoner  says.  Lots  of  them  have  tried 
to  tell  what  happens,  but  it's  no  use.  So  somebody's  got 


Donald  Lowrie  397 

to  die.    And  even  then  I  suppose  it  would  be  hushed  up." 

The  next  morning  an  extra  coat  was  placed  on  R 

before  he  was  laced  in  the  jacket.  In  a  few  minutes  his 
screams  of  agony  were  piercing  our  brains.  I  can  hear 
them  yet.  I  shall  always  hear  them.  Every  man  who 
heard  them  unconsciously  kept  as  quiet  as  possible.  We 
moved  about  with  light  tread.  Without  reasoning  about 
it,  we  wanted  those  screams  to  have  full  sway,  to  reach 
everywhere,  all  through  the  prison,  over  the  walls,  out 
into  the  world,  into  the  homes  of  men  and  women,  into 
the  schools,  into  the  churches.  It  was  not  R — — ,  Convict 
No.  20581,  who  was  screaming;  it  was  not  one  human  soul 
that  was  being  strangled — it  was  the  composite,  the 
group-soul  of  all  the  proscribed.  Christianity — civiliza- 
tion— was  engaged  in  the  murder  of  the  soul  of  a  convict 
because  he  had  exercised  a  talent  for  making  beautiful  and 
delicate  things.  Art  was  being  crucified  by  a  twentieth 
century  prison  system.  But  the  screams  did  not  seem 
to  move  those  who  had  it  in  their  power  to  relieve  the 
victim.  Only  his  fellow  convicts  suffered  with  him — 
"And  through  each  brain  on  hands  of  pain 
Another's  terror  crept." 

The  screams  had  to  penetrate  two  steel  doors  and  wind 
through  the  cellar-like  passageway  to  the  outer  air.  Their 
very  faintness  made  them  more  horrible.  It  sounded  like 
a  man  being  tortured  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  After 
the  dungeon-keeper  had  timidly  reported  at  the  office 
twice — he  was  always  fearful  when  he  came  to  report 
screams,  because  he  was  sometimes  sent  back  with  a 
reprimand  about  being  chicken-hearted — the  Captain  went 
down  to  investigate,  but  refused  to  release  the  victim.  He 
came  back,  jangling  the  keys  at  his  side  and  humming 
"Annie  Rooney."  After  a  time  the  screams  became 
fainter.  Finally  they  died  away. 


398  My  Life  In  Prison 

When  the  Lieutenant  and  Morrell  went  to  the  dungeon 
at  the  regular  hour — the  expiration  of  the  six-hour  limit, 
according  to  the  ruling  of  the  State  Board  of  Prison 
Directors — they  found  R unconscious. 

Morrell  came  back  with  his  lower  lip  bleeding.  He 
slammed  the  keys  down  on  the  table,  glanced  murderously 
at  the  Captain,  and  rushed  across  the  yard  to  his  cell. 
Had  he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  I  do  not  know  what 
might  have  happened. 

R — —  was  carried  to  the  incorrigible  ward  that  evening. 
What  happened  to  him  up  there  he  will  have  to  tell  himself 
— if  he  ever  comes  out  of  San  Quentin  alive. 

All  the  prisoners  were  in  a  ferment.  Whispers  passed 
from  man  to  man.  It  was  decided  that  the  demonstration 
which  had  been  withheld  on  New  Year's  Eve  should  take 
place  that  night.  The  men  were  determined  to  let  the  new 
Warden  know  that  they  would  meet  him  half  way,  but 
would  not  stand  for  this  kind  of  barbarity.  After  lock-up 
the  demonstration  took  place.  It  consisted  of  pounding 
on  the  cell  doors,  screams  in  imitation  of  the  sufferer, 
and  the  shouting  of  vile  epithets  at  the  Captain  of  the 
Yard.  It  did  not  last  long,  but  was  very  intense  while 
it  did  last.  The  Warden  came  down  from  his  residence 
to  ascertain  the  reason  for  the  disturbance.  He  asked 
Morrell  what  had  caused  it. 

"Why,  the  men  are  sore  at  the  deal  R is  getting. 

They  thought  that  kind  of  thing  was  all  over,  that  you 
wouldn't  stand  for  torture." 

The  Warden  started  to  speak,  Hut  stopped.  Then  he 
began  asking  questions.  These  questions  clearly  indicated 
that  he  did  not  realize  the  extent  to  which  the  prisoner 
had  been  tortured.  He  remained  about  an  hour  and  then 
went  out  with  his  head  down  and  his  hands  behind  him, 
walking  slowly. 

I  could  not  help  feeling  depressed.     I  knew  that  the 


Donald  Lowrie  399 

man  was  big,  that  he  was  kindly,  that  he  was  honest,  that 
he  wanted  to  be  fair  and  just.  When  the  two  prisoners 
who  escaped  during  the  first  week  of  his  administration 
had  been  subjected  to  a  siege  in  the  strait  jacket  we  all 
had  thought  it  was  because  the  Warden  was  new  and 
inexperienced,  that  he  did  not  fully  realize  what  he  was 
doing. 

But  here  was  the  same  thing  over  again — a  countenanc- 
ing of  torture,  and  for  a  comparatively  much  less  serious 
offence.  It  looked  bad. 

Morrell  and  I  discussed  the  situation  at  length.  He 
was  extremely  bitter  and  aggressive.  But  somehow,  even 

with  R 's  screams  still  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  felt  a 

conviction  that  deep  down  the  Warden  was  kind  and  hu- 
mane and  would  not  tolerate  another  such  barbarity.  It 
seemed  inconsistent  to  feel  that  way,  but  I  couldn't  help 
it. 

"Perhaps  he's  still  feeling  his  way,"  I  argued.  "Per- 
haps he  wants  to  determine  just  what  the  old  system  really 
is.  Maybe  he's  playing  out  the  rope  to  Randolph  just  to 
see  how  far  he  will  go,  just  to  get  a  line  on  him,  to  learn 
his  character." 

Morrell  snorted  and  kicked  over  the  coal  scuttle.  When 
it  stopped  sliding  he  kicked  it  again. 

"Say,  you  make  me  tired,  absolutely  tired,"  he  snarled. 
"It's  that  kind  of  slop  that  keeps  this  sort  of  thing  going 
— that  fertilizes  it.  How  would  you  like  to  be  smothered 
half  to  death  so  that  the  Warden  could  learn  his  business 
and  find  out  you're  human  ?  I  thought  you  were  different ; 
I  thought  you  could  feel  a  knife  when  you  saw  it  stuck 
into  another  man's  heart.  But  it's  the  old  story — you've 
got  to  have  the  knife  stuck  into  you  before  you  know  what 
a  knife  really  is." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  I  replied,  with  heat.  "I'm 
not  trying  to  justify  torture  or  anything  of  that  sort,  but 


400  My  Life  In  Prison 

I  know  this  man  is  going  to  be  a  good  man  for  the  pris- 
oners. He's  made  a  mistake,  a  terrible  mistake,  but  didn't 
the  Legislature  investigate  the  use  of  the  jacket,  and 
didn't  they  sanction  it?  And  hasn't  the  Board  of  Di- 
rectors made  rules  for  its  use,  limiting  the  number  of 
hours  it  can  be  applied?  The  Warden  is  adjusting  him- 
self to  conditions  as  he  finds  them,  but  you  take  it  from 
me,  he'll  change  them.  If  he  came  in  like  a  bull  in  a  china 
shop  and  tore  up  things  generally  I  wouldnt'  have  any 
faith  in  him — that  would  show  impulsiveness.  You'll 
have  to  admit  that  conditions  are  better  than  they  were, 
that  there  has  been  less  punishment,  that  this  Warden  is 
doing  many  kind  things,  and  has  helped  a  great  many 
men  to  get  started  right  when  they  went  out.  You  wait  and 
see." 

Morrell  cooled  down  somewhat  and  replied  calmly: 
"Yes,  what  you  say  is  true.     He's  the  best  Warden 
this  place  has  ever  had,  but  I  only  hope  those  screams  cut 
into  him  like  they  did  into  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Recently  I  spent  an  evening  at  the  rectory  of  one  of 
San  Francisco's  well-known  churches.  There  were  six 
men  present — two  churchmen,  a  college  student,  a  neo- 
phyte and  two  ex-prisoners.  The  dinner  was  served  by  the 
light  of  four  candles.  It  will  always  be  a  distinct  and 
pleasant  recollection. 

On  entering  the  rectory  with  my  friend — the  student — 
I  was  introduced  to  the  ex-prisoner  and  we  shook  hands. 
I  knew  him  and  he  knew  me,  but  I  didn't  know  whether 
his  status  was  known  to  all  the  others  or  not,  so  I  said 
nothing  to  indicate  that  I  had  ever  seen  him  before. 
When  the  rector  invited  me  to  come  and  have  dinner  and 
spend  the  evening  he  told  me  that  another  ex-prisoner 
would  be  present,  but  I  had  no  way  of  knowing  that  the 
other  guests  knew  about  him,  especially  when  I  was  intro- 
duced to  him  as  if  we  were  strangers. 

After  we  sat  down  to  dinner  the  conversation  drifted  to 
prison  conditions.  I  was  talking  about  a  certain  aspect 
of  the  matter  when  the  other  ex-prisoner  interrupted. 
I  had  been  talking  about  the  food  served  at  San  Quentin 
and  had  inadvertently  used  the  word  "wholesome."  The 
rector  had  asked  about  the  food  and  I  had  replied : 

"Well,  of  course  it  isn't  what  a  man  would  choose  to 
eat,  but  it's  wholesome,  and  there's  plenty  of  it." 

"Wholesome!  Wholesome!"  exploded  the  ex-prisoner. 
"Wholesome!  Why,  man,  how  can  you  sit  there  and 

401 


402  My  Life  in  Prison 

say  that?  It's  rotten,  absolutely  and  unqualifiedly  rotten, 
and  you  know  it.  And  it's  served  as  if  the  men  were 
dogs." 

In  his  excitement  he  had  forgotten  that  some  of  the 
persons  present  were  unaware  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
served  time,  and  there  was  a  noticeable  flurry  about  the 
table. 

"You  may  call  that  food  wholesome,"  he  continued, 
"but  I'd  feel  like  a  butcher  if  I  fed  it  to  hogs.  Many  a 
time  I've  gone  into  that  swill  hall  after  working  hard  in 
the  mill,  and  hungry  enough  to  eat  nearly  anything,  and 
then  sat  there  and  just  gulped.  It  would  come  over  me 
that  I  was  nothing  more  than  a  hog.  That  was  on  ac- 
count of  the  way  it  was  thrown  at  us,  and  the  dipping 
into  a  common  dish  with  the  spoons  they  ate  with;  but 
that  wasn't  all.  Don't  they  soak  the  beans  in  soda  to 
make  'em  soft?  Don't  they  skim  the  worms  and  filth  off 
the  dried  apples  after  they've  been  boiled?  Don't  they 
throw  the  vegetables  into  the  stew  all  covered  with  dirt 
and  filth,  the  same  as  you'd  throw  them  into  a  barrel 
of  swill?  Wholesome  food!  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  you — you're  lukewarm;  you're  getting  used  to 
decent  living  it's  coloring  you;  and  you  didn't  spend 
a  long  enough  time  in  the  mill  and  eating  in  the  swill  hall 
to  get  your  craw.  You  seem  to  be  forgetting  that  you're 
talking  for  1900  prisoners  who  can't  talk  for  themselves. 
I've  read  everything  you've  written,  and  some  of  it  is  all 
right,  but  hand  it  out  straight,  just  as  it  is;  there's  hun- 
dreds ready  to  back  you  up." 

I  stopped  eating  and  looked  aHout  the  table.  Every 
eye  was  on  the  man  who  was  talking,  and  everybody 
seemed  to  be  convinced  of  his  sincerity. 

"Don't  they  get  enough  bread?"  I  asked,  weakly,  spar- 
ring for  time,  and  trying  to  defend  my  position;  "and 


Donald  Lowrie  403 

doesn't  every  new  prisoner  eat  with  relish  when  he  first 
comes  in?  And  don't  lots  of  them  get  fat?" 

"Oh,  yes,  there's  enough  bread,  and  fresh  fish  generally 
eat  pretty  well  after  being  starved  in  the  county  jail, 
and  they  do  get  fat,  but  you  don't  see  many  men  fat 
after  they've  eaten  that  stuff,  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  and  over,  day  after  day,  month  after  month,  year 
after  year,  do  you?  I  know.  I  went  through  it,  and 
I  know  that  I  got  so  I  couldn't  eat  anything :  my  stomach 
shook  its  fist  at  me  every  time  I  tried  to  eat  beans.  Why? 
Because  my  stomach  knew  that  eating  soda  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  would  put  me  out  of  business.  And 
I  wasn't  the  only  one.  I  knew  a  hundred  men  who  were 
in  the  same  fix.  Did  you  eat  the  grub  in  the  main  line 
after  you'd  been  at  it  a  year?" 

He  turned  toward  me  expectantly. 

I  was  tempted  to  fabricate,  because  I  had  my  argument 
up  my  sleeve,  but  he  looked  at  me  so  searchingly  that  I 
told  the  truth. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  did,"  I  replied.  "I  ate  enough 
to  keep  alive,  but  lots  of  them  used  to  say  I  was  a  hop- 
head  because  I  was  so  thin.  It  was  more  a  case  of  being 
sick  of  the  same  old  thing,  the  same  old  taste,  the  same 
old  musty,  sour  smell,  than  it  was  the  food  itself,  I  think. 

"You  seem  to  be  forgetting  one  thing,"  I  added. 
"There  are  lots  of  people  in  the  world  who  believe  that 
prisoners  should  be  fed  that  way.  Suppose  I  devoted  a 
lot  of  space  to  complaints  about  the  food ;  suppose  I  en- 
deavored to  show  that  by  feeding  human  beings  that  way 
and  breaking  down  their  health  society  was  turning  pris- 
oners into  weak  and  incapable  men  and  unfitting  them 
to  take  up  the  battle  of  life  after  their  release,  and  sup- 
pose I  tried  to  demonstrate  that  this  treatment  was  the 
cause  of  many  second  offences,  what  would  be  the  result? 
I'd  be  branded  as  a  sentimentalist,  as  a  man  who  wanted 


404  My  Life  in  Prison 

to  have  the  prisons  turned  into  pleasure  resorts,  with  first- 
class  hotel  meals. 

"Even  as  it  is,  for  trying  to  show  the  weakness  and 
waste  of  the  prison  system,  and  for  trying  to  do  it  frankly, 
there  are  many  who  will  maintain  that  I  ought  to  be 
squelched.  Suppose  I  saw  the  matter  from  your  view- 
point alone,  and  forgot  all  about  the  prejudices  and  blind- 
ness of  those  who  don't  know  and  who  have  never  suf- 
fered, what  would  be  the  result  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  "but  I  do  know  I'm  a  wreck 
from  eating  that  grub,  or  trying  to  eat  it.  And  I  know 
it's  wrecked  many  another  man. 

"And  there's  another  thing.  How  about  the  deal  a 
guy  gets  from  the  croaker  when  he's  sick  ?  Of  course,  you 
worked  at  the  office,  and  I  know  the  doctor  is  always  ready 
to  treat  a  bonton  all  right.  But  how  about  the  guys  that 
go  into  the  hospital  in  the  morning,  hoping  to  get  some 
relief,  and  get  kicked  out?  Let  me  tell  you  what  happened 
to  me.  I  had  an  ulcerated  tooth,  and  I  went  up  to  the 
croaker  in  the  9  o'clock  line. 

"  'Wasser  matter  with  you?'  he  shot  at  me,  as  if  I'd 
committed  some  awful  crime.  My  face  was  all  swollen 
up,  and  I  wasn't  feeling  any  too  gay,  but  I  held  in. 

"  'I've  got  an  ulcerated  tooth,  doctor,'  I  said,  'and  I'd 
like  to  get  it  treated.' 

"  'Open  your  mouth,'  he  ordered,  grabbing  my  chin 
with  one  hand  and  the  back  of  my  head  with  the  other. 
He  looked  at  the  tooth  and  then  turned  to  one  of  his 
'con'  assistants. 

"  'Pull  this  tooth  out,'  he  ordered,  giving  me  a  shove 
toward  the  operating  chair. 

"  'Oh,  no,  you  don't,'  I  objected.  'I  don't  want  it 
pulled  out.  It's  a  good  tooth  and  I  haven't  got  any  too 
many  left.  All  I  want  is  to  get  it  treated.' 

"  'Oh,    you    want    it    treated,    do    you  ?'     he    sneered. 


Donald  Lowrie  405 

*  Where  do  you  think  you  are,  anyway?  You've  certainly 
got  a  crust  coming  in  here  telling  me  my  business.  Now 
you  beat  it,  and  beat  it  quick.  When  you  get  ready  to 
have  that  tooth  pulled  out  you'll  find  us  doing  business 
here  at  the  same  old  stand.  Git.' 

"When  I  got  outside  I  headed  for  the  office.  The  Cap- 
tain was  away  and  the  turnkey  was  on  duty  in  his  place. 
I  explained  the  case  to  him.  He  was  kind  enough,  the 
same  as  he  always  was,  but  he  said  he  couldn't  interfere 
with  the  doctor. 

"  *He's  running  the  hospital,  you  know,  and  that's  his 
business.  But  you  needn't  go  back  to  work.  You  go 
over  to  your  cell  and  lie  down.' 

"For  seventeen  days  I  lay  in  that  cell  suffering  the 
tortures  of  hell  itself.  Two  or  three  of  the  guards  tried 
to  do  something  for  me,  but  nothing  did  any  good.  If 
I'd  had  money  at  the  office  I'd  gone  and  seen  the  dentist 
on  Sunday — you  remember  he  came  every  Sunday — but 
I  was  broke.  Finally  a  feller  that  knew  something  about 
teeth — I  s'pose  he'd  been  a  dentist  outside — slipped  into 
my  cell  and  fixed  me  up  with  a  little  knife  that  he  carried 
in  his  hatband. 

"I'll  never  forget  those  seventeen  days  as  long  as  I 
live.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  I'm  working  and  doing 
right  now.  At  that  time  I  could  'a'  committed  any  crime 
on  the  calendar.  But  the  Father  here  is  my  friend;  he 
got  me  a  job,  and  he's  treated  me  fine,  and,  anyway,  I'd 
rather  do  right  than  cut  off  my  nose  to  spite  my  face." 

At  present  there  are  about  1,900  prisoners  confined 
at  Sari  Quentin,  with  120  employees  to  guard  them,  an 
average  of  16  to  1.  Of  course,  should  these  1,900  pris- 
oners ever  act  concertedly  and  decide  to  take  charge  of 
things  there  would  be  "nothing  to  it,"  provided  they 
chose  the  right  leaders.  But  there  is  absolutely  no  danger 
of  such  a  movement.  There  are  always  several  hundred 


406  My  Life  In  Prison 

men  who  are  either  "short-timers"  or  who  have  served 
such  large  portions  of  their  sentences  as  to  make  the  for- 
feiture of  their  credits  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  enter- 
tained. Also  there  are  quite  a  number  who  honestly  feel 
that  they  are  paying  a  debt  to  society — ignoring,  for  the 
moment,  what  society  owes  them — who  would  not  leave  the 
prison  were  the  walls  razed  and  the  bolts,  bars  and  keys 
thrown  into  the  bay. 

Again,  there  are  some  who  are  always  on  the  watch  for 
a  chance  to  advance  themselves  by  furnishing  the  officials 
the  least  item  of  information  savoring  of  insubordination 
or  a  plot  to  escape.  Practically,  when  everything  is  con- 
sidered, the  prisoners  are  their  own  jailers.  A  general 
uprising  is  almost  impossible.  There  has  not  been  an 
escape  plot  of  any  note  hatched  at  San  Quentin  for  de- 
cades, though  a  plot  of  this  nature  was  carried  to  a 
more  or  less  successful  termination  at  Folsom  in  1903, 
when  thirteen  prisoners  captured  the  Warden  and  some 
of  his  officers,  used  them  as  a  cordon  and  marched  away 
without  being  fired  upon. 

The  morning  that  Folsom  "break"  took  place  the  news 
reached  San  Quentin  about  9  o'clock.  The  man  who  was 
turnkey  at  the  time  came  rushing  into  the  prison  from 
outside  with  the  news. 

"Folsom  prison  has  broke  loose — all  the  cons  have  es- 
caped!" he  shouted,  breathlessly.  "Half  a  dozen  guards 
killed  and  about  thirty  wounded !" 

Nothing  of  this  nature  had  occurred  at  either  prison 
for  many  years,  and  the  news  was  so  startling  that  we 
instinctively  refused  to  credit  it.  But  as  the  day  wore 
away  the  news  was  confirmed,  though  in  modified  form, 
and  not  a  prisoner  in  San  Quentin  but  threw  out  his  chest 
— unconsciously,  perhaps — in  the  knowledge  that  they 
could,  if  they  wanted  to,  do  the  same  thing.  A  prisoner 
is  so  suppressed  at  all  times  that  he  cannot  help  feeling 


Donald  Lowrie  407 

proud  of  any  assertion  of  strength  or  initiative  on  the 
part  of  other  prisoners — it  is  a  letting  off  of  steam. 

But  though  the  prisoners  at  San  Quentin  have  not  made 
a  "break,"  they  have  enfranchised  themselves  in  another 
way,  and  almost  as  incisively.  On  two  occasions  they 
have  gone  on  strike,  closed  down  the  jute  mill  and  dis- 
rupted the  routine  of  the  prison  generally. 

The  first  of  these  strikes  occurred  in  the  late  90's,  and 
lasted  three  days.  In  that  strike,  however,  the  prisoners 
made  the  mistake  of  going  to  their  cells  at  night  before 
they  had  gained  their  point.  They  were  promptly  locked 
in,  and  once  under  cover  were  helpless. 

A  fire  hose  was  dragged  from  cell  to  cell,  and  each  man 
was  "wet  down"  to  cool  him  off.  Food  was  also  denied 
them,  and  gradually,  one  by  one,  they  gave  up  and  agreed 
to  return  to  work.  This  strike  was  caused  by  insufficient 
food,  served  without  being  half  cooked.  The  prisoners  had 
grumbled  at  first.  Then  a  few  individuals,  bolder  than 
the  rest,  had  openly  complained,  and  had  been  punished, 
and  that  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  After  it  was  all 
over  there  was  a  marked  improvement  in  the  food  and  in 
the  manner  of  preparing  it. 

The  strike  in  1907,  under  Warden  Edgar,  while  it  did 
not  assume  the  proportions  of  the  other,  was  none  the 
less  serious,  and  the  results  secured  were  just  as  marked, 
if  not  more  so. 

For  months  the  staple  articles  of  food,  such  as  beans, 
flour,  dried  fruits  and  vegetables,  had  been  wretched,  fre- 
quently rotten.  The  contractors  supplying  these  com- 
modities had  encroached  upon  the  apathy  of  the  purchas- 
ing department  until  they  felt  that  they  could  do  as  they 
pleased,  and  supply  food  that  was  practically  refuse.  The 
flour  was  weeviled,  the  potatoes  were  black  and  soggy, 
the  evaporated  apples  were  crawling  with  worms.  But 
the  prisoners  had  to  eat  these  things  or  starve. 


408  My  Life  In  Prison 

For  several  months  before  the  strike  occurred  there  was 
a  steady  grumble  from  the  table,  and  many  oral  and  writ- 
ten complaints  to  the  Warden,  but  without  effect.  One 
day  when  the  prisoners  returned  to  the  mill  after  a  par- 
ticularly atrocious  meal  at  noon  the  word  was  passed  to 
quit  work  and  assemble  in  the  jute  mill  yard.  A  few  men 
were  afraid  to  obey  and  remained  at  their  tasks.  But 
when  the  leaders  came  around  and  threatened  to  "knock 
their  blocks  off"  they  saw  their  folly  and  joined  in. 

It  was  the  union  man  and  the  scab  of  the  outer  world 
exemplified  within  prison  walls.  The  principle  of  a  work- 
ing-man's right  to  live  like  a  man  was  at  stake.  Without 
realizing  it,  the  prisoners  were  demonstrating  the  eternal 
right  of  unionism. 

At  first  the  guards  in  the  mill  tried  to  prevent  the  walk- 
Dut,  but  soon  abandoned  the  effort,  realizing  that  they  were 
powerless.  After  everyone  was  in  the  yard  a  council  was 
held  and  it  was  decided  to  send  an  ultimatum  to  the 
Warden.  Briefly,  this  ultimatum  was  that  the  Warden 
should  come  down  to  the  jute  mill  yard  personally  and 
give  them  his  word  that  better  food  would  He  served, 
beginning  with  supper  that  night.  If  he  did  not  come 
down  in  one  hour,  or  if  the  six  men  who  were  chosen  to  con- 
vey the  message  were  ill  treated  in  any  manner,  the  ma- 
chinery in  the  mill  would  be  demolished.  If  that  did  not 
bring  results  the  mill  would  be  burned. 

Of  course,  the  fact  that  a  strike  was  in  progress  reached 
the  office  before  the  six  emissaries — who  were  passed  out 
of  the  mill  yard  by  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  double 
gates — but  the  report  was  not  taken  seriously.  After  the 
committee  of  six  had  made  known  the  ultimatum,  however, 
the  seriousness  of  the  situation  was  apparent  and  the 
Warden  decided  to  go  down  to  the  yard  parley,  as  or- 
dered. 

I  saw  WarcTen  EiTgar  as  KP  arid  CapTairi  RandolpB 


Donald  Lowrie  409 

were  on  their  way  to  the  mill.  The  Warden's  face  was 
a  study.  During  all  his  years'  service  as  a  subordinate 
prison  official,  when  he  was  Captain  of  the  Yard,  he  al- 
ways despised  convicts.  Never  for  an  instant  had  he 
admitted  that  a  prisoner  had  any  rights  that  an  officer 
was  bound  to  respect. 

Time  had  patiently  waited  for  him  to  become  Warden 
before  searing  his  soul  with  the  humiliating  truth.  I  am 
sure  that  John  C.  Edgar  began  to  die  at  that  moment. 
Had  he  followed  his  natural  inclinations  he  would  have 
ordered  extra  guards  to  the  walls  of  the  jute  mill  yard 
and  had  them  fire  promiscuously  into  the  crowd. 

But  that  course  would  not  only  have  meant  the  de- 
struction of  the  mill,  with  possibly  a  general  delivery  of 
the  prison,  but  also  publicity,  a  publicity  which  would 
have  blazoned  his  lack  of  ability.  After  a  lifetime  of 
pride  such  an  ending  was  unthinkable.  It  was  better, 
far  better,  to  swallow  a  small  and  bitter  dose  quietly  than 
to  have  the  public  learn  of  his  incompetency. 

Above  all,  the  disturbance  must  be  kept  out  of  the 
papers,  as  other  prison  affairs  had  been  kept  from  the 
papers  in  the  past — and  as  they  have  been  kept  from  the 
papers  since. 

So  he  and  Randolph  went  to  the  mill.  It  was  a  nervy 
thing  to  do,  but  there  was  no  alternative.  The  spokes- 
man for  the  strikers  made  known  the  terms,  and  the  War- 
den acceded  to  them  without  quibbling.  The  prisoners 
took  him  at  his  word — a  tribute  to  the  man  even  in  his 
extremity — and  went  back  to  work. 

That  afternoon  a  change  was  made  in  the  dietary,  and 
that  night  a  wholesome  supper  was  served.  A  good  deal 
of  the  food  on  hand  was  condemned  and  destroyed,  and  the 
contractors  were  notified  that  they  would  be  held  strictly 
to  the  terms  and  specifications  of  their  contracts  in  the 
future.  The  Warden  had  promised  that  none  of  the 


410  My  Life  in  Prison 

leaders  of  the  strike  would  be  discriminated  against  in  the 
slightest  degree,  and  they  were  not. 

But  during  the  years  that  followed,  long  after  the  strike 
had  been  forgotten,  some  of  these  men  were  reported  at 
the  office  for  infractions  of  the  rules,  and  then  they  "got 
theirs."  The  mistake  made  by  the  strikers  was  that  they 
did  not  demand  a  new  and  more  humane  Captain  of  the 
Yard  along  with  better  "grub."  Had  they  done  this,  had 
they  reasoned  above  their  diaphragms,  San  Quentin  prison 
would  now  be  well  advanced  toward  serving  the  only  pur- 
pose for  which  prisons  should  be  maintained — the  pro- 
tection of  society  by  the  humanizing  of  the  prisoners. 

But  some  one  has  aptly  remarked  that  there  are  only 
nine  meals  between  mankind  and  anarchy. 

For  many  years  the  average  number  of  prisoners  re- 
ceived at  San  Quentin  was  less  than  two  a  day,  but  during 
the  past  two  years  this  average  has  been  increased  to 
nearly  three  each  day.  Of  course,  there  is  always  a  certain 
degree  of  interest  attached  to  new  arrivals.  When  a  new 
prisoner  steps  inside  the  walls  and  is  brought  through  the 
garden  to  the  office  the  prisoners  employed  there  are  prone 
to  speculate  on  how  long  he  is  to  stay  and  what  he  has 
done. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  county  from  which  he  has  been 
committed  is  known  as  soon  as  he  steps  inside,  because  the 
Deputy  Sheriffs  from  the  various  counties  are  familiar 
figures. 

But  this  interest  is  not  so  much  in  the  prisoner  himself 
as  it  is  in  the  circumstances  of  his  case,  and  the  new 
arrival  is  met  with  no  show  of  feeling.  This  is  the  result 
of  familiarity,  and  not  because  of  heartlessness  on  the 
part  of  those  concerned. 

Mr.  Sullivan,  the  present  turnkey,  whose  duty  it  is  to 
receive  and  interrogate  new  prisoners,  is  a  man  of  deep 
sympathies  and  excellent  judgment.  He  has  been  an 


Donald  Lowrie  411 

officer  at  San  Quentin  for  many  years,  and  though  quiet 
and  unobstrusive  by  nature,  has  a  better  insight  into  the 
real  characters  of  individual  prisoners  and  knows  more 
about  their  strengths  and  weaknesses  than  any  man  on 
the  reservation.  He  very  seldom  makes  a  mistake  in  his 
estimate  of  a  man,  and  yet  he  always  hesitates  before  say- 
ing anything  derogatory  to  any  prisoner.  A  peculiar  as- 
pect of  his  nature  is  that  he  seldom  shows  any  concern  for 
the  new  arrival  by  direct  speech.  Yet  men  always  feel  that 
he  is  a  good  man  and  that  he  understands  them. 

In  all  the  years  I  spent  at  San  Quentin  I  never  heard 
one  prisoner  say  anything  against  Mr.  Sullivan.  This 
is  a  remarkable  tribute,  more  remarkable  than  appears  on 
the  surface.  No  matter  how  fair  and  considerate  a  guard 
may  be,  there  is  always  someone  ready  to  "knock"  him ; 
not  so  much  as  an  individual,  perhaps,  as  because  he  is 
a  part  of  the  law.  There  are  some  prisoners  who  hate 
the  law,  and  this  hate  includes  every  one  who  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  its  enforcement. 

"No  thief  e'er  yet  felt  halter  drawn 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law." 

And  yet  his  kindly  manner,  his  absolute  fairness,  his 
ability  to  reprimand  without  getting  incensed  or  excited, 
his  sympathy  for  those  who  deserve  it  and  his  mercy  to 
those  who  are  brought  before  him  for  punishment  when 
he  is  in  charge  of  the  inner  prison  have  made  Mr.  Sullivan 
beloved  by  all  the  prisoners.  For  years  before  he  be- 
came turnkey  he  had  charge  of  the  mess  hall  during  meal 
hours.  When  the  men  filed  into  the  hall  and  saw  Mr. 
Sullivan — "Old  Dan,"  they  call  him — standing  at  his  post 
a  feeling  of  respect  instantly  came  over  them. 

Only  on  very  rare  occasions  would  disturbances  occur. 
When  he  was  absent  the  change  in  the  attitude  of  the 
men  was  noticeable,  and  there  was  always  more  or  less 


412  My  Life  in  Prison 

trouble.  And  when  he  was  appointed  turnkey  and  another 
man  was  given  charge  of  the  mess  hall  quarrels,  fights 
and  disobedience  became  common.  This  was  after  John 
E.  Edgar  became  Warden. 

It  finally  got  so  bad  that  the  Warden  went  to  Mr.  Sul- 
livan and  asked  him  to  resume  his  duty  in  the  dining- 
room  at  meal  times,  along  with  his  new  duties  as  turnkey. 
He  did  so,  and  the  discipline  instantly  improved.  I  know 
of  no  greater  achievement  for  a  prison  officer  than  this. 

The  turnkey's  duties  are  arduous  and  exacting.  He 
is  really  the  busiest  man  on  the  prison  grounds,  though 
his  salary  is  much  less  than  that  of  many  others  who  have 
less  to  do.  He  opens  and  reads  all  mail — sometimes  as 
many  as  three  or  four  hundred  letters  a  day — receives 
all  new  prisoners,  whom  he  measures  according  to  the 
Bertillon  system,  and  whose  finger  prints  are  taken  in 
quintuple.  He  also  receives  and  keeps  account  of  all 
moneys  sent  or  left  for  prisoners,  turning  it  in  to  the 
Warden  each  day.  He  has  charge  of  the  historical  and 
individual  records,  the  commitments  and  the  photographs 
of  all  prisoners  who  have  ever  been  received  at  San  Quen- 
tin.  He  is  the  auxiliary  officer  for  the  "female"  depart- 
ment. And  during  the  absence  of  the  Captain  of  the  Yard 
he  is  in  charge  of  the  prison  itself,  as  second  officer.  Yet 
I  have  never  seen  him  lose  patience,  I  have  never  heard 
him  abuse  a  prisoner  and  I  have  never  known  him  to  act 
impulsively  or  unjustly.  Add  to  all  this  a  fine  sense  of 
humor  and  you  have  a  fair  picture  of  "Old  Dan."  An- 
other thing,  and  an  important  fact  to  remember,  is  that 
he  seldom  says  good-bye  to  an  outgoing  prisoner  without 
giving  him  a  word  of  encouragement,  an  expression  of 
good  will  and  the  hope  that  he  will  "make  good." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Writing  about  the  man  who  suffered  for  seventeen  days 
with  an  ulcerated  tooth  emphasized  the  case  of  another 
man  whom  I  saw  a  few  days  ago,  just  after  his  discharge 
from  San  Quentin,  where  he  had  served  two  years.  Al- 
though his  face  was  not  familiar  to  me,  the  instant  he 
stepped  into  the  office  it  was  apparent  where  he  had  come 
from.  The  cheap  black  hat,  the  shoddy  clothes,  the 
greasy  shoes,  were  unmistakable. 

But  in  addition  to  these  material  earmarks  he  had  that 
furtive,  half-frightened  expression  so  characteristic  of 
men  who  have  just  been  released  from  prison.  It  devel- 
oped that  he  was  without  money  and  had  been  unable  to 
secure  employment.  Although  there  were  three  or  four 
vacant  chairs,  he  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  fingering 
his  hat  nervously.  He  did  not  come  all  the  way  into  the 
room,  but  stood  near  the  door,  as  if  to  make  a  quick  egress 
in  case  somebody  tried  to  strike  him. 

"I've  been  out  three  days,"  he  said  in  reply  to  a  ques- 
tion, "and  all  I  want  is  a  chance.  I  ain't  looking  for 
charity  'r  nothin'  like  that,  but  if  I  can  get  work  I'm 
able  to  do  I'll  do  it,  and  be  glad  of  the  chance." 

"What  do  you  work  at?  Have  you  a  trade?"  he  was 
asked. 

"No,  I  ain't  got  no  trade.  I  used  to  be  a  prize-fighter 
before  I  got  drinkin'  and  got  into  trouble.  See,  here's 
my  picture."  He  reached  intn  his  inside  coat  pocket  and 

413 


414  My  Life  in  Prison 

produced  a  frayed  photograph  of  a  youth  in  tights  with 
an  American  sash  about  his  waist. 

"I  was  some  scrapper  in  them  days,"  he  said,  proudly. 
"I  was  a  comer  in  the  lightweight  division.  This  was 
taken  the  day  before  I  licked  Kid  Jackson  back  in  Philly." 

"But  I  guess  1*11  never  be  any  good  again,"  he  went 
on.  "I've  got  rheumatism  in  the  joints,  and  sometimes 
I  can  hardly  walk.  They  had  me  in  the  dungeon  over 
across  until  the  day  before  I  came  out.  You  see,  I 
couldn't  get  around  very  fast  on  account  of  the  rheuma- 
tism. I  went  to  the  superintendent  of  the  mill  and  told 
him  the  fix  I  was  in.  He  told  me  I'd  have  to  see  the 
doctor.  I  went  to  the  doctor  and  told  him  I  was  sick. 
I  pleaded  with  him,  but  I  got  nothing.  He  abused  me, 
called  me  a  faker,  and  I  said,  'All  right;  you  take  me 
to  the  Captain.' 

"With  that  he  grabbed  me  by  the  neck,  and  before  I 
knew  anything  half  a  dozen  bontons  that  worked  there 
in  the  hospital  got  hold  of  me,  hit  me,  beat  me  up  and 
threw  me  out.  I  went  to  the  Captain,  and  he  put  me  in 
the  hole  for  seventeen  days — for  strikin'  the  doctor.  That 
was  the  charge  they  put  against  me.  I  denied  the  charge 
and  refused  to  go  to  the  hole,  but  they  had  all  the  best 
of  it. 

"The  last  few  weeks  I  took  sick  with  stomach  trouble. 
I  went  to  the  Captain  and  pleaded  with  him  to  excuse  me 
from  work  so  I  could  get  well  and  strong  so  I  could  do 
an  honest  day's  work  when  I  got  out.  I  was  all  in.  He 
chased  me  back  to  work. 

"  'If  you  come  near  me  again  I'll  put  you  in  the  hole  for 
the  rest  of  your  time,'  he  said. 

"I  was  sufferin'  with  injustice  and  pain  and  I  wouldn't 
go.  So  he  put  me  in  the  hole  until  my  time  was  up.  I 
asked  to  see  the  doctor  after  I  was  down  there,  but  the 
Captain  said  'No;  I'm  the  doctor.' 


Donald  Lowrie  415 

"So  I  stayed  there  without  any  treatment  until  9 
o'clock  the  day  before  my  time  was  up." 

He  was  given  some  money,  and  arrangements  were  made 
for  him  to  be  examined  by  a  first  class  doctor.  The 

doctor's  report  is  now  on  file.  It  states  that  L is 

afflicted  with  inflammatory  arthritis  and  a  heart  lesion, 
indicating  some  blood  irritant  in  the  past. 

It  may  be  asked  why  the  man  did  not  apply  to  some 
society  for  assistance. 

The  last  time  I  visited  such  an  institution  the  super- 
intendent boasted  that  the  place  was  empty.  "We  don't 
encourage  them  to  stay  here,"  was  the  way  he  put  it. 

I  wondered  what  the  place  was  for  and  why  the  people 
who  support  it  give  their  money. 

Samuel  L.  Randolph,  the  present  Captain  of  the  Yard, 
came  into  prominence  a  number  of  years  ago  when  he 
was  still  a  prison  guard.  One  night,  while  in  a  saloon  at 
San  Quentin  Point,  he  was  shot  by  a  discharged  prisoner. 
There  is  an  old  saying  to  the  effect  that  "where  there  is 
smoke  there  is  fire."  Of  course  there  was  a  cause  be- 
hind this  shooting.  Even  at  that  early  day,  long  before 
he  had  risen  to  his  present  position,  Randolph  was  hated 
by  the  prisoners.  The  shooting  occurred  in  the  presence 
of  several  witnesses,  all  of  whom  agreed  that  it  was  un- 
provoked, that  the  offender  had  stepped  into  the  saloon 
"looking  for  trouble." 

The  man  who  did  the  shooting  was  known  as  "Scarry," 
and  he  had  deliberately  returned  to  San  Quentin  village, 
after  his  discharge  from  the  prison,  apparently  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  "getting"  Randolph.  Of  course,  not  hav- 
ing been  present,  I  am  obliged  to  take  the  word  of  other 
persons  for  what  occurred.  I  have  been  told  that  when 
"Scarry"  entered  the  saloon  and  threatened  Randolph 
with  the  revolver  Randolph  taunted  him,  walking  up  to 
him  with  the  question:  "Well,  why  don't  you  shoot?" 


416  My  Life  in  Prison 

until  he  got  so  close  that  "Scarry"  lost  his  self-possession, 
dropping  his  arm  and  pulling  the  trigger  of  the  revolver 
so  that  the  bullet  entered  the  leg  of  his  intended  victim. 
At  any  rate,  there  has  never  been  any  question  as  to  Ran- 
dolph's "nerve."  No  one  has  ever  been  justified  in  calling 
him  a  physical  coward  at  crucial  moments. 

When  I  first  heard  the  story  of  this  shooting  I  didn't 
understand  what  had  led  up  to  it,  and  the  fact  that 
"Scarry"  had  been  overpowered,  jailed  and  sent  to  Fol- 
som  for  ten  years  I  took  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
during  the  ten  years  that  I  saw  Randolph  nearly  every 
day  it  became  very  apparent  why  he  had  been  shot,  and 
when,  on  February  22  of  this  year,  another  attempt  was 
made  to  kill  him,  the  viewpoint  and  feelings  of  the  man 
who  attempted  the  murder  could  be  readily  understood. 

Time  and  time  again  I  had  heard  prisoners  exclaim, 
"He'll  get  it  some  day.  Some  one  is  bound  to  kill  him, 
and  when  it  happens  it  will  be  no  wonder." 

It  certainly  is  not  my  intention  to  convey  the  im- 
pression that  I  am  in  sympathy  with  a  man  who  takes, 
or  attempts  to  take,  a  human  life;  but  at  the  same  time 
I  understand  just  how  the  boy  felt  when  he  tried  to  take 
Randolph's  life. 

A  week  before  it  happened  some  of  the  prisoners  knew 
that  it  was  going  to  occur,  and  the  matter  was  discussed 
between  myself  and  another  man.  This  man  had  received 
authentic  information  that  the  Captain  was  to  be  killed, 
and  told  me  about  it. 

"I  can't  keep  it  to  myself,"  he  declared.  "There  isn't 
any  doubt  but  that  it's  the  straight  dope,  and  if  I  keep 
still  and  Randolph  is  killed,  why,  I'll  be  guilty  of  mur- 
der." 

There  wasn't  any  question  as  to  the  correctness  of  this 
view,  and  Randolph  was  informed  of  the  plot. 

"So  I'm  to  be  stabbed  if  I  go  through  the  yard  on  Sun- 


Donald  Lowrie  417 

day?"  he  mused.     "Well,  it  ain't  the  first  time  I've  heard 
that." 

On  Sunday  he  strolled  through  the  yard,  but  nothing 
happened.  Several  days  before  a  boy  had  been  brought  to 
tke  office  for  some  slight  infraction  of  the  prison  rules, 
and  Randolph  had  struck  him  in  the  face.  There  is  a 
State  law  to  the  effect  that  an  officer  or  guard  shall  never 
strike  a  prisoner,  save  in  self-defence  or  to  quell  a  riot. 
On  one  occasion  a  half-witted  negro  had  been  brought  in 
from  the  "hill  gang."  The  prisoner  was  smiling,  unap- 
preciative  of  the  solemnity  of  the  moment,  when,  without 
warning,  he  was  struck  in  the  face  with  such  violence  that 

he  fell.     On  another  occasion  a  prisoner  named  W 

still  at  San  Quentin — wag  given  a  beating  by  Randolph 
in  the  clothing  room. 

W had  endeavored  to  escape  by  hiding  in  the  sewer 

of  the  new  prison  and  had  been  "smoked  out."  A  number 
of  guards  and  prisoners  were  present  in  the  clothing  room 

while  W was  changing  his  clothes  to  go  to  the  "hole," 

and  witnessed  the  abuse  to  which  Randolph  subjected  him. 
A  few  minutes  after  it  happened  an  eye-witness  described 
the  scene  to  me,  and  a  few  days  ago  I  received  a  letter 
from  an  ex-guard,  telling  of  the  same  event,  stating  that 
he  was  present  and  never  saw  a  more  cowardly  thing  in 
his  life,  and  asking  if  I  was  going  to  "sidestep"  telling  it. 

To  recount  all  the  instances  of  Randolph's  brutality 
would  make  a  good-sized  volume.  Sufficient  has  here  been 
told  to  show  why  prisoners  hate  and  want  to  kill  him. 

Although  he  went  through  the  yard  without  mishap  on 
the  Sunday  that  had  been  settled  upon  as  the  day  when  he 
should  be  stabbed,  the  plot  was  by  no  means  abandoned, 
and  a  few  days  later — Washington's  Birthday — as  he  was 
passing  through  the  yard  a  prisoner  suddenly  rushed 
from  the  crowd  with  a  long  knife  and  endeavored  to  kill 
him.  The  knife  entered  the  Captain's  back  and  pene- 


418  My  Life  in  Prison 

trated  deeply,  but  he  grappled  with  his  assailant  and 
managed  to  hold  him  until  assistance  arrived.  Then  he 
walked  to  the  hospital. 

The  man,  or  boy,  accused  of  the  assault  was  the  same 
person  whom  Captain  Randolph  had  struck  in  the  face 
a  few  days  previously.  He  was  escorted  to  the  office  and 
then  taken  to  the  incorrigible  ward,  where  he  has  since 
been  confined. 

At  the  time  this  attempted  murder  occurred  no  men- 
tion was  made  of  it  in  the  newspapers — at  least  not  until 
it  "leaked  out"  days  afterward.  It  has  always  been  the 
custom  when  a  prisoner  committed  a  murderous  assault 
to  take  him  to  the  county  seat  and  place  him  on  trial  for 
the  offence.  But  in  this  case  no  prosecution  was  insti- 
tuted. Naturally,  the  prisoners  wondered  why.  The  rea- 
son is  apparent.  Had  this  case  gone  into  the  courts 
Captain  Randolph  would  have  been  shown  to  the  public 
in  his  true  character.  He  had  struck  a  defenceless  and 
helpless  prisoner  once  too  often,  and  even  though  the 
prisoner,  seething  with  injustice  and  hate  so  that  he  was 
ready  to  commit  murder,  had  struck  at  the  Captain's 
life,  no  publicity  could  be  risked — the  system  was  too 
sacred. 

Much  that  could  be  written  has  been  left  unwritten,  and 
much  that  has  been  written  has  been  toned  down  in  order 
to  be  entirely  fair,  or  to  avoid  giving  offence  to  readers. 
In  every  instance  where  individuals  have  been  mentioned 
in  an  uncomplimentary  way  there  has  been  no  personality 
involved,  no  desire  to  wound,  no  motive  other  than  that 
of  showing  the  injustices  and  indignities  to  which  pris- 
oners have  been  and  may  be  subjected  under  the  present 
system.  That  the  time  is  at  hand  when  prisons  shall 
cease  to  be  regarded  solely  as  places  of  punishment  and 
degradation  is  unquestioned.  All  over  the  United  States 
the  people,  and  the  people's  public  servants,  are  interest- 


Donald  Lowrie  419 

ing  themselves  in  the  conduct  of  prisons,  and  clamoring 
for  more  logical  and  humane  methods.  Already  there 
have  been  results.  The  State  prisons  of  California  are 
being  conducted  to-day  much  better  than  they  were  con- 
ducted four  years  ago;  they  are  also  being  conducted 
much  better  than  they  were  conducted  four  months  ago. 
The  strait  jacket  has  practically  been  abandoned  at  San 
Quentin;  and  only  a  few  weeks  ago  the  "tricing  up"  of 
prisoners  at  Folsom  was  abolished  by  the  State  Board  of 
Prison  Directors.  At  a  recent  meeting  of  this  board  the 
rule  requiring  paroled  prisoners  to  conjure  $25  out  of 
the  atmosphere  was  rescinded.  The  poor  and  friendless 
prisoner  now  has  a  chance  to  redeem  himself  along  with 
the  others.  At  the  next  session  of  the  Legislature  all 
forms  of  corporal  torture  in  the  State  prisons,  as  well 
as  legalized  murder,  should  be  relegated  to  the  realms  of 
barbarism. 

As  has  been  pointed  out  in  this  narrative,  Warden 
Hoyle,  at  San  Quentin,  is  the  most  efficient  Warden  who 
has  ever  held  that  office  there.  He  ha,s  fought  consistently 
for  better  conditions  and  has  gradually  reduced  all  forms 
of  torture  and  abuse.  Give  him  ten  years  more,  with 
scope  to  work  out  reforms,  and  he  will  be  the  best  War- 
den in  America.  But  in  order  to  attain  this  honor  and 
distinction — an  honor  and  distinction  which  any  man 
might  well  feel  proud  to  attain — he  has  to  act  positively. 
In  order  that  he  may  act  to  the  best  advantage  the  laws 
must  be  changed  so  that  the  present  system  may  be  done 
away  with.  Also  all  officers  and  guards — pending  the  time 
when  they  shall  be  unnecessary — must  be  compelled  to 
qualify  for  their  positions,  and  paid  accordingly. 

Talking  with  a  State  Senator  at  Santa  Cruz  recently, 
I  was  informed  that  while  at  Sacramento  for  the  purpose 
of  enacting  laws,  the  members  of  the  Legislature  are  be- 
sieged for  their  official  influence  to  gain  positions  in  the 


420  My  Life  in  Prison 

State  institutions  for  men  in  need  of  jobs.  It  is  not  a 
question  of  fitness  that  decides  who  shall  have  such  posi- 
tions, but  purely  a  question  of  who  can  bring  the  most 
influence  to  bear.  Under  this  system  many  undesirable 
and  incapable  men  have  succeeded  in  getting  positions 
where  they  have  the  lives  of  fellow-beings  in  their  hands. 
This  is  not  just,  either  to  the  inmates  of  the  institutions 
or  to  the  taxpayers. 

Some  day  the  people  will  realize  the  fact  that  the  man 
at  the  head  of  a  State  prison  should  be  just  as  capable 
and  efficient  as  a  man  at  the  head  of  a  university,  for 
every  aspect  of  human  life  and  character  is  contained 
within  the  four  walls  of  a  penitentiary.  And  some  day 
it  will  not  even  be  necessary  to  have  walls  of  brick  and 
stone  at  all.  Paroled  prisoners  have  no  walls,  yet  85  per 
cent,  of  them  are  making  good,  circumscribed  by  moral 
walls  which  are  just  as  effective  as  material  walls. 

State  institutions,  and  especially  the  State  prisons, 
should  be  a  source  of  revenue — not  an  expense — to  the 
State.  This  may  be  accomplished  coincidently  with  a 
course  of  treatment  beneficial  to  prisoners  as  individuals. 
The  assertion  has  been  made  that  it  is  easy  enough  to 
criticise  present  conditions — easy  enough  to  tear  down — 
but  what  is  to  be  the  new  system  ? 

The  object  of  this  narrative  has  not  been  to  tell  the 
remedy,  but  to  show  the  necessity  for  it.  It  has  not 
been  written  in  the  nature  of  an  attack,  but  simply  that 
the  taxpayers  and  the  conscientious  citizens  of  the  com- 
munity may  know  what  they  are  responsible  for.  If  they 
are  satisfied  with  the  picture — poorly  as  it  has  been 
produced — no  harm  has  been  done  to  anyone.  If  they 
are  dissatisfied  it  is  their  right  and  their  duty  to  change 
conditions. 

There  are  a  number  of  ways  in  which  a  change  may 
be  effected — a  number  of  systems  whereby  prisoners  may 


Donald  Lowrie 

be  benefited  and  converted  into  useful  citizens  while  "pay- 
ing the  penalty"  for  crime.  The  New  Zealand  system  is 
probably  the  best,  but  in  the  absence  of  knowledge  as  to 
the  details  it  cannot  be  stated  intelligently.  Next  to  that 
system,  perhaps,  is  the  indeterminate  sentence,  with 
parole,  based  on  individual  merit  under  a  remunerative 
industrial  plan  whereby  the  prisoner  may  support  his 
family  while  he  is  confined. 

At  present  new  cell  buildings,  designed  to  hold  1,600 
prisoners,  are  being  constructed  at  San  Quentin.  If 
the  present  cell-houses  and  dormitories  are  allowed  to 
stand  the  full  capacity  of  San  Quentin  prison  will  be 
3,500.  Add  a  thousand  for  Folsom,  and  we  have  pro- 
vision for  4,500  convicts.  Surely  that  doesn't  solve  the 
problem !  There  are  close  to  3,000  convicts  in  California 
now.  Will  an  additional  1,500  be  desirable?  It  is  not 
new  cells  that  are  required,  but  a  new  system  without 
cells.  No  human  being  has  ever  been  benefited  by  being 
confined  in  a  cell.  God  meant  human  beings  for  fresh  air, 
sunshine  and  work. 

In  concluding  this  narrative  I  want  to  say  a  few  words 
for  Captain  Randolph  and  others  whom  I  have  criticised 
— not  in  a  personal  way,  but  as  representatives  of  the  sys- 
tem. A  prisoner  just  released  from  San  Quentin  states 
that  Captain  Randolph  is  now  treating  the  prisoners  with 
consideration,  that  he  does  not  send  them  to  "the  hole" 
or  "take"  their  privileges  for  trivial  offences,  especially 
the  first  time.  Instead  he  gives  them  a  chance  to  get 
straight.  This  is  the  probation  system  carried  into  the 
prison  community.  And  the  discipline  has  been  main- 
tained. 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  received  a  signed  letter  stating  that 
I — a  man  guilty  of  two  criminal  convictions — had  an 
"awful  gall"  to  presume  to  tell  people  who  have  never 
broken  the  law  how  to  conduct  their  affairs.  From  the 


My  Ltfe  in  Prison 

standpoint  of  the  old  order  of  things  I  have  had  an  "awful 
gall,"  but  from  the  standpoint  of  the  new  order,  with  the 
mothers  and  mothers-to-be  holding  a  voice  in  affairs,  and 
the  general  awakening  of  the  genuine  Christ  spirit  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  this  "awful  gall"  is  a  desirable  attribute. 
I'm  glad  I  have  it.  I  hope  I  shall  continue  to  have  it, 
as  I  hope  that  this  book,  with  its  true  accounts  of  some 
of  the  saddest  phases  of  human  life,  will  awaken  or 
strengthen  in  many  men  and  women  the  sense  of  compre- 
hension and  the  urgent  desire  for  helpful  action. 

THE  END. 


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